


温家双煞短篇

by Lorelai_H, Ninni



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: 中文
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 166
Words: 57,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14574117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelai_H/pseuds/Lorelai_H, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninni/pseuds/Ninni
Summary: 【授权翻译】原地址：https://holdmesamthatwasbeautiful.tumblr.com听说汤要凉凉，跑来备份。original text (English) : Ninnitranslation (Chinese) : Lorelai_H





	1. John doesn't know

**Author's Note:**

> LOFTER版：http://wincest4ever.lofter.com

　　John 对加油站柜台后面的女士说：“你要是能快点结账的话比较好，因为我和我的男孩急着走。” 他不明白为什么说完之后她会脸色发白。

　　她透过窗户看向 Impala，他开始不耐烦。“他们是你的儿子？” 她微弱地问。

　　John 随着她的视线看过去。Dean 在前座看地图，Sam 无精打采地坐在后面闷闷不乐。没什么不对劲的，于是 John 严肃地说：“是啊。现在可以快点了？”

　　她的眼睛扫向 John，和他对视了一瞬息，她眼里有些什么。或许是恐惧；John 如今在所有人眼里都看得见恐惧，但这也可能只是怜悯。John 怒视着给他找零钱的女士。

　　“上帝保佑你们所有人，” 她最后说道。John 得抑制住自己翻白眼的冲动。

　　靠，他很高兴可以离开这正统派教徒地带，就算是因为北达科塔的一只溫迪戈。

　　John 不知道她之前见过他的男孩。

　　他不知道就在昨天晚上，他们俩进过同一家加油站闲逛，Dean 的手臂占有欲十足地挂在 Sam 的肩膀上。

　　他不知道 Dean 给 Sam 买了一支雪糕。

　　不知道 Dean 在她面前吻了 Sam 粉红色的嘴唇。

　　不知道在荧光灯下，Dean 让 Sammy 的脸颊浮起漂亮的红晕时，他脸上自鸣得意的坏笑。

　　John 不知道她那个时候柔声靠近他们，问他们在一起多久了。

　　John 不知道 Sam 带着多么梦幻的神情抬头看向 Dean，然后回答：“一辈子。”

 

* * *

 

John doesn’t know why the lady across the counter at the gas station goes a little pale when he says: “If you’d ring it up quickly that’d be great, ‘cause me and my boys are in a bit of a hurry.”

Impatience claws at him when she glances out the window at the Impala. “Those are your sons?” she asks, faintly.

John follows her gaze. Dean’s in the front seat reading a map, Sam’s slouching moodily in the backseat. Nothing is out of the ordinary, and John says tightly: “Yeah. Now, if we could hurry this up?”

Her eyes flicker over to John’s for only a moment, and there’s something in her eyes. Fear perhaps; John sees fear in everyone’s eyes these days, but this just might be _pity_ , and John glares at her as she hands him his change.

“God bless you all,” is the last thing she says, and John must stop himself from rolling his eyes.

_Fuck, he’s happy to leave these bible belt states, even if it’s for a wendigo in North Dakota._

John doesn’t know that she’s seen his boys before.

He doesn’t know that just the night before, his boys had wandered into the same gas station with Dean’s arm possessively slung over Sam’s shoulder. He doesn’t know that Dean had bought Sam ice-cream; doesn’t know that Dean had kissed Sam’s pink mouth right there in front of her; doesn’t know the smug smirk on Dean’s face as he’d made Sammy blush prettily beneath fluorescent lights.

John doesn’t know that she’d cooed over them and asked how long they’d been together.

John doesn’t know that Sam had gazed dreamily up at Dean and said: “Since forever.”


	2. Dirty Talk

　　“把你所认识最下流的话说给我听。” Dean 在 Sammy 耳边兴奋地要求，圈在他脖子上的手指占有欲满满。

　　Sam 舔了舔唇，透过深色的眼睫毛打量 Dean。

　　“ **哥哥** 。” 他悄悄回答，因为旅馆房间的墙壁很薄，John 说不定还醒着。

 

* * *

 

“Tell me the dirtiest word you know,” Dean demands hotly against the shell of Sammy’s ear, his fingers curled possessively around his throat.

Sam licks his lips, eyeing Dean from beneath dark lashes.

“ _Brother_ ,” he whispers, because motel room walls are thin and John might still be awake.

 


	3. Distance

　　二十五岁的 Dean 比以往任何时候都更加漂亮。他把美貌像面具一样带着，因为高高的颧骨和粉色的嘴唇下藏着他的憔悴、丑陋、恶毒和敌意。

　　他所身处的中西部酒吧又吵又暗，突然一位看上去很自信的陌生人向他走来，无耻的目光在 Dean 身上游走。

　　陌生男人舔了一下嘴唇，把一杯饮料推到 Dean 面前：“加冰波本威士忌，本州内最好的酒。不把名字告诉我吗，小甜心？”

　　Dean 的嘴噘成完全不感兴趣的表情，把饮料挤走：“滚开。” 他举起自己的啤酒靠近嘴边，一只手摸向脖子，小心翼翼地抓住护身符：“我有人了。”

　　他真心这么想，哪怕加利福尼亚从未显得如此遥远。

 

* * *

 

Dean is twenty-five, and he’s prettier than he’s ever been. He wears his beautiful face like a mask, because beneath the high cheekbones and pink lips he’s pinched an ugly; spiteful and hostile.  

The Midwest bar is noisy and dark around him when he’s approached by a confident looking stranger, whose eyes roam shamelessly along Dean’s body.

The stranger licks his lips as he slides a drink over to Dean. “Bourbon on the rocks, the best one in the state. Why don’t you tell me your name, sweetheart?”

Dean’s mouth curls into a disinterested line as he shoves the drink away. “Fuck off,” he says into his beer. His hand comes up to his neck, fingers gently grasping the amulet. “I’m taken.”

And he means it, even if California has never seemed farther away.


	4. Fire

　　Dean 会猎杀。他懂得如何给自己缝针，被威士忌沾湿的伤口会让他皱起脸。他还会从头重组一辆 67 Chevy Impala，知道如何拯救世界，也知道地狱之火舔上喉咙的滋味。

　　Dean 看向桌子对面的 Sam；看着他手指梳理刚起床的鸡窝头，看着睡意逐渐从他脸上褪去。Dean 的眼睛无法移开，盯着 Sam 喋喋不休讨论案子的粉色嘴唇。因为刚醒导致声音粗哑，Sam 漫不经心地喝了几口咖啡。

　　Dean 懂得很多，可他不知道 **投降** 会是怎么样。

　　他不知道咖啡从 Sammy 的嘴里尝起来会怎样；不知道自己的手指卷进他头发里的时候，他会发出什么样的声音。Dean 不知道要如何去索求这其中的任何一种。

**他完全不知道。**

　　Dean 的咖啡接触到舌头的时候既浓郁又苦涩；他问道：“该怎么终止？”

　　Sam 并不知道 Dean 所说的不是案子。

　　他回答：“用火。”

　　Dean 想到，这一切也是从大火而来。

 

* * *

 

Dean knows how to kill. He knows how to stitch himself up and wince above whiskey soaked wounds, knows how to rebuild a 67 chevvy Impala from the ground up, knows how to save the world and he knows what hellfire tastes like when it licks the back of your throat.

Dean watches Sam across the table; the way his fingers tangle in the bedhead hair and how sleep fades from his face. Dean can’t take his eyes from Sam’s pink mouth that keeps blabbing away about a case in a sleepy morning rasp between absentminded sips of coffee.

Dean knows a lot, but he doesn’t know what it would be like to _give in_.

He doesn’t know what coffee would taste like off Sammy’s morning mouth, doesn’t know what noises he’d make with Dean’s fingers curled in his hair; Dean doesn’t know how to ask for any of it.

_Dean doesn’t know._

Dean’s coffee is black and bitter on his tongue when he asks: “How do we end it?”

Sam doesn’t know, but Dean isn’t talking about the case.

Sam says: “With fire.”

Dean thinks, _It started with one, too._


	5. Rear View Mirror

　　Sam 像猫一样在后座移动；像一只渴望被关注的小猫咪，用鼻子去蹭 Dean 耳朵后面的部位。

　　“我现在要亲你了。” Sam 轻柔地说。

　　大张着嘴，带有水声的吻。Dean 在 Sam 吻他的时候只是轻轻喘气。他的手指甲在 Dean 脖子上划出粉色的细痕。Dean 知道他不该这么做、知道这有多么不对、多么混乱不堪。可事情已经不再由他做主，因为他弟弟知道怎么用话语和舌头使他着魔。Dean 除了在他宝贝弟弟的嘴里抑制不住地呻吟，别的什么也做不到。

　　当他们分开的时候，Sam 双眼在黑暗中闪烁，嘴里发出赞许的哼声。就在这时他注意到 Dean 看向前座的眼神，于是 Sam 转头怒目而视。

　　John 的眼睛在后视镜里对上 Sam 冰冷的双眸。他的喉咙被使人作呕的恐惧堵着，因为他已经不知道怎么办了；不知道 Sam 是什么东西也不知道它是如何缠上 Dean 的。他只知道他年幼的儿子在车子后座上舔开他哥哥的嘴巴，这是他们第一次连掩饰都没有尝试。

　　“拜托，” John 绝望地睁大眼睛，发出破碎的乞求：“别……”

　　Sam 却只露出冷酷骇人的笑容，在那张十四岁孩子天真稚嫩的脸上显得极其丑陋错误。

　　“把你的眼睛转向公路，老爸。” Sam 阴沉地告诉 John，随后转回去面对哥哥。他抚摸着 Dean 的头发，柔声补充：“你正载着珍贵的货物。”

 

* * *

 

Sam moves like a cat in the backseat, like a kitten craving attention; rubbing his nose against the spot beneath Dean’s ear.

“Gonna kiss you now,” Sam murmurs softly.

Dean only gasps softly as Sam kisses him: noisily and open-mouthed, his fingernails dragging pink lines down Dean’s neck. Dean knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s so wrong and fucked up but he doesn’t call the shots anymore because his little brother has ways of getting beneath his skin with his words and his tongue and Dean can’t help but to moan helplessly into his pretty baby brother’s mouth.

Sam’s eyes glitter in the darkness when they part and he hums softly with approval. That’s when he notices the way Dean looks to the front seat, and Sam turns his head to glare.

John’s eyes meet Sam’s cold ones in the rear view mirror, his throat thick with bile and fear because he doesn’t know what to do anymore, doesn’t know what Sam is or how it got to Dean, too - he just knows that his youngest boy licked his brother’s mouth open in the backseat, and that’s the first time they hadn’t even tried to hide it.

“Please,” John pleads brokenly, eyes wide with desperation. “Don’t.”

Sam only smiles a cold, horrible smile that looks hideously wrong on that innocent fourteen year old face.

“Keep your eyes on the road, old man,” Sam tells John darkly as he turns back to his big brother. He pets Dean’s hair, and adds gently: “You’ve got precious cargo.”


	6. Carry On

 

　　有一对兄弟，坐在车后座，坠入了爱河。他们爱着彼此，既不美好也不甜蜜。他们不会缩进毯子里傻笑；太阳融入黑夜时也不会温柔地接吻。

　　他们的爱情，是痛苦和占有欲；妒火在两人中间无声咆哮。Dean 感觉到有什么脱离了原定的轨道，因为他发现他想杀掉那个褐色眼睛的可爱女生，向他弟弟那样眨眼睛的女生。

　　他们长大了，试图走出这片爱情泥沼，因为他们在溺亡。过于激烈的感情吓到他们了。Sam 离开后，Dean 的呼吸停止了，整整四年。一切都那么容易，因为他不需要在乎。猎魔变得如此简单：他活着就活着，死了就死了。

　　他从不曾走出这段爱情。他再次感觉到 Sam 的气息时几乎被冲击到跪下来。他们向彼此投降，像战场上两名疲惫不堪的士兵。

　　双唇在对方嘴上融化，双手在熟悉的皮肤上探索陌生的伤疤；向彼此述说所有轻柔，危险，抑制无果的真相。

　　这是精疲力竭，重如千钧的爱。疼痛一点点耗尽 Dean 的力气。并不是轻飘飘的心跳加速与幸福急流；他们的爱是露出獠牙的无情怪物， **Dean** **的鸩毒** 。失去 Sam 的风险每天夜里都缠绕着 Dean。

　　他们用相爱同样的方式做爱：绝望又粗暴，舌头舔舐流血的指关节，用指甲将爱意注释进裸露的皮肤里。伤痕在对方身上盛开，黑暗且丑陋，就像他们生命中的所有其他东西。

　　 **他不重，** **他是我的弟弟。**

　　这是谎言，因为他实际上有那么重：他是全世界，眼睛里有千万星系；于是 Dean 会抱着他，直到时间尽头。

　　到头来，就像一开始那样，全都只不过是关于他一个人而已。

　　Dean 继续行进。

 

* * *

 

Two brothers fall in love in the backseat of a car.

They love each other, and it’s not pretty. It’s not sweet; they don’t giggle beneath blankets and they don’t kiss softly when the day bleeds into night.

They love, achingly and possessively; jealousy roars like fire between them silently and Dean feels something slide out of place when he realizes that he wants to kill a sweet brown eyed girl for the way she bats her eyelashes at his little brother.

They grow up, and they try to fall out of love, because they’re drowning. The intensity scares them. Sam leaves, and Dean doesn’t breathe for four years. Everything is easy, because he doesn’t have to care. Hunting is so simple: if he lives, he lives. If he dies, he dies.

He never falls out of love. When he feels Sam’s scent again, it almost knocks him to his knees. They surrender to each other like two tired soldiers on the battlefield; mouths melting together as hands find new scars on familiar skin, and they tell each other all the soft, dangerous truths they have tried to put to rest.

It’s a tired, heavy kind of love. It aches and it wears Dean down, it’s not the light-headed rush of speeding hearts and happiness. Their love is a merciless monster baring its fangs; _Dean’s bane_ , and the threat of losing Sam haunts Dean every night.

They fuck the same way they love: desperately and violently, tongues over bloodied knuckles, clawing love notes into bare skin. Bruises blossom between them, dark and ugly, like everything else in their lives.

 _He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother_.

It’s a lie, because he is so very heavy: he is the whole world and he has galaxies in his eyes, and Dean will carry him until the end of time.

In the end, like in the beginning, it’s just him, him, him.

Dean carries on.


	7. WIP

“We’re going to bed.”

John is a dark and disinterested outline by the small desk. Four fingers of cheap whiskey gleams in dim and ugly motel light next to the dusty volume and Dean knows that John doesn’t give a shit.

John doesn’t take his eyes off the pages. “Don’t forget bedtime prayer.”

Dean smiles softly. “We never do.”

*

Sammy has spit on his fingers as he turns the pages of the Bible. His eyes are cool, his mouth is a rosy, bored curve. A messy, dark halo of hair glows deceitfully in the light of the bedside lamp.

Dean shuts the door behind him, softly.

He didn’t lie about the bedtime prayer.

Dean has made sure Sam can recite the Bible since he could talk.

The book of Revelation sounds so sweet coming from a demon blood bathed child’s throat.

Sam lifts his head to gaze at Dean across the room. He eyes Dean like a king would a mistress, and says: “Kiss me goodnight.”

It’s a haughty demand, and Dean’s whole heart swells with pride as he climbs into the bed. He tugs the book from Sam’s hand. Saliva makes the thin pages stick together, and Dean tosses it to the floor with a thud.

“13:7 first,” Dean murmurs, his fingers tangling in Sam’s hair.  

Sam’s throat is milky pale, and he swallows before whispering: “’And it was given unto him to make war with the saints, to overcome them: and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.’”

Dean laps the words from Sam’s mouth. The kiss is slow and wet and Sam whines wordless pleas for more. Dean gives it to him, he always does, and it’s always like this: teeth and spit and blood at the back of Sam’s throat.

Not enough blood. Not yet. Dean’s hands are beneath Sam’s t-shirt, warm and possessive over unblemished stretches of pretty boy skin.

Sam is so very thin.  

Sammy’s skinny ribcage is the gates of hell, and Dean wants to come home. Sam’s heart beats steadily as he watches Dean.

“It’s been a month since I drank,” Sam reminds him. His voice is like ice setting over the lake of Gennesaret, and Dean shivers with delight at the mean gleam in Sam’s eyes.

“’And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast,’” Dean recites, quietly, as he thinks of the _still-too-human_ blood in his veins; the kind of blood not yet fit for the kind of monarch Sam will be.  

Sam draws his invisible mark in Dean’s forehead with the tip of his finger. “I’m thirsty.”  

The Bible lies, spit-soaked and forgotten, on the floor.

Dean’s mouth is on Sam’s, hot and eager, when he promises: “Soon, I’ll be your knight. And you’ll never be thirsty again.”


	8. WIP

Sam is fifteen, and he wears strawberry flavoured lip gloss.

Dean is a lethal kind of boy; the kind that has a beautiful face to go with his gutter soul, and he licks that obscene little brother mouth open up against motel walls.

Dean wonders if they’ve fallen in love.  

Sam is all narrow hips and long hair, his thighs are sun kissed and golden under skimpy shorts that earns him long, nasty glances by filthy truckers who look at Sam’s little ass like they would do jailtime for it.

Dean growls at the thought of anyone else near Sam. Dean’s hands are filthy with motor oil and soot from the salt and burn he just finished with John, and they leave smudges of dirt all over Sam’s little ass as Dean pins him to the wall and drinks down Sammy’s intoxicating whines.

“Do you like dressing like this when I’m not around?” Dean’s voice is faux honey sweet. He murmurs against Sam’s ear: “Did you leave the motel looking like this, sweetheart? Like a twenty buck boy hooker?”

Sam blinks up at him, _put-on-a-show_ coy and feline. “I wasn’t a whore until you turned me into one.”

That’s when Dean knows.

They’re in love. It’s tar black and sticky, and they’ll never be able to rinse it off. They will reek of this, of each other, forever.

“Say it,” Dean demands quietly, fingers loose around Sam’s little neck. The pulse races beneath his touch. “Say that you’re mine.”

Sam pulls him closer, eyelashes fluttering across Dean’s cheek, and he whispers defeatedly against Dean’s mouth: “God, how I _hate_ you.”

Dean’s heart is a graveyard of things he will bury for this boy.

Dean kisses him again. Softly, so softly, he steals the last gleam of strawberry from Sam’s mouth, and says: “I know.”


	9. WIP

Michael asks: “What do you want?”

Sam lifts his head to glare.

The red, wonderful curve of Dean’s mouth is twisted into a mean smirk by Michael, and Sam’s heart breaks at the thought of his brother trapped behind that icy exterior; lonely and terrified and voiceless.

Sam’s entire body trembles with fury as he stares down the archangel.

He doesn’t want peace. He doesn’t want any of the things people kneel down to pray for.

Sam snarls, “ _I only want him_.”

Michael’s smirk remains. After a moment, he remarks: “You sound just like him.”


	10. WIP

Green eyes gleam, and gleam, and gleam. ‘ _Is it true?_ ’, they seem to ask, ‘ _Are you leaving?_ ’

‘He’s just a boy,’ Sam tells himself.

Just a boy. A boy who, no matter how much cologne he steals, always smells like soap and gasoline. A boy who smiles tiredly in the backseat of an Impala; tired to the bones but never too tired to smile at Sam through cuts and bruises, _this smile is for you_.

A boy who is warm when everything else is cold and so very gentle when everything breaks. He is a boy who loves as intensely as he tries to hide it, but it’s in everything he does; it’s all over that achingly beautiful face.

He’s just a boy with a stupid, smiling mouth; a mouth Sam has wanted to kiss since he knew what it meant to want something. He’s the brightest thing in Sam’s whole dark universe, so blindingly easy to want but so impossible to have.

He’s the imagined arm around Sam’s waist at night, the longed for whispers into his ear and the glimpse of light Sam will forever cherish and keep in the dark corners of his heart.

‘ _He’s just a boy_ ,” Sam tells himself, chest aching as the boy with the gleaming green eyes becomes a golden blur through his own tears.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I have to.”

He has to, because Dean is that boy, and Sam would die for him; but Sam’s shadow must never fall on something so bright.


	11. WIP

One day, Sam says into stuffy august heat: “There’s a girl.”

Dean lifts his head to stare at Sam: at his sun kissed throat and cherry mouth. “Yeah?” Dean asks, eyebrow arched. “She pretty?”

Sam has the loveliest hands. The knife he’s holding isn’t bad looking, either. It gleams in the late afternoon sun, and Sam smiles at Dean from beneath all that dark hair. “I wanna know what she looks like on the inside.”

Dean laughs, softly; it sounds surprised but he isn’t. _Fuck, he’s so in love with this boy._

After two weeks, Dean shows him.

It’s laughably easy, because it always is. None of these small town girl has ever seen anything, they don’t _know_ anything; they’re enamoured by everything Dean offers; generic compliments and a pearly white grin and promises of a six-pack. It more than does the trick.

She looks lovely, all tied up on the floor. Terrified, with cheap black mascara streaking her face. She looks like they always do. Maybe a little prettier. A little blonder; _Sammy’s got a type_. Dean yanks the cherry red bow from her hair. She whines, Sam giggles.

Dean ties the ribbon into Sam’s hair: soft silk bow in perfect silk strands. “Looks much prettier on you,” Dean tells him softly, lifting Sam’s face to his. His beautiful little brother blinks up at him, and Dean want to kiss him, so he does. He kisses that familiar, lazy smirk off of Sam’s face.

It’s wet and noisy and Sam’s soul touches his. It’s always like this. Always sweet, and disgusting, and perfect. It gets Dean’s cock hard; the way he licks Sammy’s small mouth open and drinks down all the noises he can pull from that too-young throat.

Dean takes the knife from Sam, his fingers dragging along his little wrist and palm. “Ready to see how pretty she can look for us, little brother?”

Sam’s eyes go a shade darker.

To feel milky pale flesh part beneath a John Winchester sharpened knife is like getting high. Dean’s own blood _sings_ as hers flows hotly over his cool wrist, and yet –

 _-yet_ , it’s the slight parting of Sam’s lips as he watches, through hooded eyes, that makes this whole thing so _unfuckingforgettable_. It’s the way Sam owns Dean’s entire world when he whispers: “I wanna finish her.”

The girl cries sweetly beneath the silvertape when Sam settles into Dean’s lap, long fingers curling around the knife. Sam smiles against Dean’s neck, and Dean adjusts the bow in his hair.

“This makes my cock hard,” Dean murmurs, tip of his tongue pink against his cupid’s bow. His hand is large around Sammy’s thin thigh. “Does it make you hard too, sweetheart? You like her looking like this?”

“Mm,” Sam manages into the hollow of Dean’s collarbone. “She’s prettier now.”

When Sam’s done with her, she’s not whimpering anymore. Her guts are spilled over cheap motel carpet, her unseeing stare glassy and blue.

Sammy trembles with adrenaline in Dean’s arms, and it’s _exquisite_.

Dean’s tongue traces the shell of Sammy’s ear; feels that little brother pulse flutter beneath his fingertips as he wraps his fingers around Sam’s throat. Their whole universe vibrates.

The girl is prettier than ever. They’re not done.


	12. WIP

Dean Winchester hates himself.

There are moments, sometimes even days, when he doesn’t. They’re very rare, and he doesn’t even enjoy them. He knows that whatever whiskey hit he managed to score won’t last, and he’s done pretending those fleeting moments are his to keep.

He knows he’s the worst kind of human. The discrepancy between his beautiful face and his gutter soul gives him advantages he doesn’t deserve, soft looks from people who think his heart is as flawless as his treacherously pretty face.

Dean Winchester hates the green of his eyes, the freckled bridge of his nose and the curve of his mouth.

He hates everything that lies.

Dean’s convinced Sam would never look at him the way he does if Dean’s face wasn’t lying, and Dean wouldn’t allow the exhilaration of that innocent gaze to lick his soul if his heart wasn’t rotten.

The way Sam watches Dean goes far beyond little brother admiring older brother. Sam’s mesmerized gaze clings to Dean like thick blood to a light carpet, and Dean doesn’t trust himself with that gaze.

Dean knows dangerously well how to work lowered lashes aimed at him.

Dean knows how to make pretty things kneel, and he does it often. Roadhouse chicks with their tits pushed up to their chin: he knows what they want. He’s watched John enough to know how to ignore them into submission, how to scowl dismissively into your beer to make them come to you.

Dean always goes for the ones with dark bangs and skinny little hips. He tells them to keep quiet as he fucks them from behind, his fingers tangled in their hair and he battles Sam’s name off his tongue and down his throat; he only allows himself a guttural, wordless moan as he comes.

Yes, Dean Winchester hates himself. His miserable joke of a life had one purpose; to protect and love his little brother. He even managed to turn that into something perverse and dark, something he keeps cloaked in shame like he does everything else in his life.

Dean loves the same way they live: dark and ugly.

*

Sam won’t stop _looking_. Dean feels Sammy’s sweet gaze on him from Dallas to Memphis, and he can barely stand it. He’s only human, a pitiful one at that, at Sam is unbearably beautiful in the backseat: pale and pink mouthed, eyes gleaming strangely in the late afternoon sun beneath messy dark hair.

Sam looks at him like he wants to be kissed. Dean dreams of kissing him every night, before he wakes up to the nightmare of asphalt and blood and guilt.

He turns the volume up, _nights in white satin_ , and closes his eyes. Everything aches: his sore shoulder from their last shitty salt and burn, the scent of John’s leather jacket next to him, Sam’s gentle breathing somehow calling out to him on some other frequency in between Hayward’s perfect melancholy. It all aches.

John pulls over in the middle of nowhere, drawn to the motel sign like a moth to a flame and murmurs something about needing a four hour eye-shut, before getting out of the car to settle payment with the clerk. Dean keeps his eyes closed.

“Dean?”

Even Sam’s _voice_ does things to Dean’s soul. It’s raspy in an innocent little boy way; it’s salty caramel begging to be tongue traced and devoured. Dean swallows. “Yeah?”

Sam’s quiet for a moment. Dean can hear Sam shift behind him, and he shivers when he suddenly feels Sam’s breath against his neck, mumbling softly against his ear: “M’gonna kiss you when we get inside.”

Dean’s eyes draw open. He stares through the windshield at a velvet black night sky sprinkled with stars so beautiful he feels unworthy to even look at them. Everything is quiet, except for Sam’s gentle breathing against his ear and his own heart hammering in his chest. He’s not strong enough.

“Sam,” he says weakly. “Don’t.”

“I think our room’s ready,” Sam murmurs.

*

John falls asleep on the couch with his boots still on within fifteen minutes, and Sam is on one of the beds when Dean comes out from the bathroom. Sam looks up at him, small hands neatly folded in his lap.

Dean hates himself more than ever for all the things he wants to do to this beautiful boy.

Sam walks up to him, his pyjamas too big: it used to be Dean’s. It shouldn’t get Dean’s cock hard, but it does, and he draws a shaky breath when Sam reaches him.

Dean tells him: “You should go to sleep.”

Sam’s slim little fingers are cool around his wrist. “You’re not alone,” he says, with a childlike urgency that both turns Dean on and breaks his heart.

Sam’s eyes are clear and terrifyingly knowing. “You think I don’t feel this too? Dean, I. I _want_. You’re not alone.”

Dean laughs humourlessly. “You don’t know what I feel,” he mutters. “You don’t know what you’re offering. Sam, just. _Don’t_.”

Sam tugs him closer, his rosy little mouth warm against Dean’s cheek. “I know you hate yourself,” he whispers. “I know you think you’re wired wrong for wanting me.”

Dean should protest when Sam leads him to a bed, should tell him ‘ _no’_ when Sam climbs into his lap; _shouldn’t curse and bury his fingers in Sam’s long hair_.

“You have no fucking idea,” Dean growls, his forehead against Sam’s. “They should’ve called the cops on me years ago for the things I wanna do to you, little brother.”

Sam’s moan is weak and impossibly erotic, and Dean flicks his tongue against that pretty bottom lip. If not even God’s best children could resist temptation in the garden, then how could a boy singed by hellfire like Dean be expected to?

Sam kisses him, like he promised in the Impala. He kisses like he talks; sweetly and dangerously, skinny elbows digging into Deans shoulders as he pulls him closer. He whines prettily, and it’s teeth and tongue and pleas and _spit_ , and Dean’s entire rotten soul _sings_ with exhilaration.

Sam’s eyes are otherworldly when they finally part, cheeks red and mouth swollen and perfect. He’s the loveliest thing Dean has ever seen, and that’s when Sam whispers: “They’re gonna have to call the cops on both of us.”

Dean knows the day will come when he will pay for this. He knows there’s a place in hell for him, a place of endless pain and fear and despair. He feels it in his bones; there’s a persistent whisper against his ear: _You won’t get to keep him forever._

Sam kisses him again, and Dean decides.

There will come a day when he will walk willingly into hell for this boy.


	13. WIP

Dean carries thousands of souls in his chest, but he doesn’t feel any heavier.

He’s grown accustomed to the weight of his own.

The sun might catch him crying, but the world is ending, and he’s seen Sam’s face for the last time. Nothing really matters, not after that.

Dean tells Amara: _You just want your brother. You’re tearing up heaven and hell and everything in between, for him._

Dean knows, because hens done it too. His neck still smells sweetly of Sam, and everything is getting darker. Amara stares at him; a deer caught in headlights.

Far away, Sam watches a sun rise. It’s not his.

Sam’s just set forever.


	14. WIP

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Dean lifts his head to stare at Sam’s exasperated face. Sam’s low whisper hangs between them in the stillness of the bunker, stretches like another ocean between them. Fear claws at Dean’s heart, because it always has, and he’s so _sick of it_.

So sick of fearing his own inadequacy. Of fearing the way Sam’s voice softens around the devil child two rooms down. Dean reaches out for Sam, pulls him closer. Dean buries his nose in Sam’s neck, breathes in the scent of his skin that has been his home, the fundament of his world, his everything, forever.

Sam’s hand comes to rest at the back of Dean’s head, and he asks, in that sweet voice that Dean never feels worthy of: “Dean?”

Dean clings to him. “Ask me again.”

Sam’s mouth is warm against his temple. It’s barely the ghost of a whisper, this time. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Dean’s fingers dig into Sam’s arms, heart beating into Sam’s wide chest, as if begging to be let in. He takes a deep breath. “Because I know how easy it is to fall in love with boys like him,” he confesses quietly. “Because the way you look at him, that’s. That’s how I used to look at you.”

The bunker is still so quiet, and Dean’s heart is still pounding against Sam, offering itself to him. It has belonged to Sam forever – and now, Dean’s terrified that his heart has grown too grey and hard and scarred, that it needs to be replaced by something softer, something younger.

He’s so sick of being scared.

“Listen.” Sam lifts Dean’s head gently, eyes familiar and close and endlessly safe. “The way you look at me – fuck. The way I look at _you_. It’s. There’s nothing like it. _Nothing_. Dean, I’m yours. I’ll never not be yours.”

Sam’s mouth is lovely against Dean’s when he kisses him, and everything hurts. Something aches in Dean’s throat, and he thinks it might be relief: it might be the fear _finally_ letting go.

“Sam,” he murmurs, and hopes that his brother knows what he means. _I love you. I’m sorry, I’m scared. Stay._

“Dean,” Sam whispers, his fingertips against Dean’s steady heartbeat. _Don’t be scared. Your heart is mine, and mine is yours._


	15. WIP

Sam sets two steaming cups of coffee down to the bedside table and sinks down to the bed, careful not to wake Dean just yet. He reaches out and touches his brother’s neck: he’s warm with sleep and comfort beneath Sam’s touch.

It’s sweet and simple: absolutely perfect.

Dean stirs, and his eyes draw open. Sam’s heart aches in the loveliest way because Michael is gone: _it’s Dean in there_ , looking up at him; a soft, sleepy smile spreading over his face. Dean stretches with the air of a spoiled cat, rubbing his face into Sam’s hand.

“Hey,” Sam whispers. It’s so calm and quiet and Dean is so soft, and the happiness that flares in Sam’s chest is almost frightening. The moment feels so perfect and frail that he’s afraid he’ll shatter it just by speaking.  

“Hey,” Dean murmurs back, the fullness of his mouth warm against Sam’s palm. “I smell coffee.”

“Yeah. I made pancakes too.”

Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, winces a little, and looks at Sam properly. “Instead of brushing your hair?” he asks flippantly, his raspy voice achingly familiar and affectionate. “It looks like an animal crawled onto your head and died there. One of these days I might lose it, you know. Seize a pair of scissors and cut it all off.”

Sam laughs as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. His hair is a long, tangled mess around his unshaven, pale face. He drags a hand through his dirty strands, pointlessly. “Grooming hasn’t been a top priority lately.”

The mirth fades from Dean’s face at that, and he reaches out. Sam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Dean’s soft touch. “Yeah, I can tell,” Dean says, quietly. Can’t remember ever seeing you with a beard like this before.”

Sam’s fingers curl around Dean’s wrist. The pulse beneath his fingertips is quick and fluttering, and it makes Sam’s entire body thrum with want: he wants to feel that heartbeat in his bones, wants to feel it against him forever, wants to become one with that soft, perfect rhythm of _Dean_.

He tugs his brother closer, feels Dean gasp a little against his face as his hand comes to rest on Sam’s shoulder. Sam cradles Dean’s head in his hand. Dean’s naked chest is warm against Sam.

“I’ll get rid of it,” Sam promises against Dean’s mouth. “The hair stays though.”

“Mm,” Dean murmurs in agreement, fingers tangling in the hair of Sam’s nape. His eyes find Sam’s. Dean looks so certain, _so kind_ , and Sam wants to cry. “Hey,” Dean adds gently. “ _So do I_.”

Dean slowly kisses the shaky little sigh of relief from Sam’s mouth.

Soon, the coffee goes cold beside them.


	16. WIP

“He hates me.”

Sam’s head is lowered, eyes glued to the ugly motel carpet. He looks miserable, and heartbreakingly beautiful. Dean’s throat aches with sorrow, because he doesn’t know if it’s true.

“He doesn’t,” Dean says anyway, because it’s what Sammy needs to hear. “Hey. _He doesn’t_. He’s just upset.”

Sam lifts his head, and Dean isn’t prepared for the way Sam looks like this: furiously blinking away guilty tears. He looks so much younger than his eighteen years, and suddenly; _Dean hates John_ , intensely and with all his heart, for making Sam so unhappy.  

“You didn’t hear him,” Sam says, his small voice breaking. “Dean, _he told me I shouldn’t come back_.”

Dean reaches him in a few strides, his fingers curling around Sam’s wrist. Sam leans into him without hesitation like he always does; warm and trembling. Dean pulls him close, buries his nose in the messy brown locks against better judgment, and murmurs: “You can always come back to me.”

There is so much more he wants to tell the wonderful boy in his arms. He wants to tell him about all the things Sam could ask of him. Dean would give him the moon, if he could. Dean would give him his heart and soul, anywhere and always: _You can always come back to me: I might die if you don’t_.

Sam blinks up at him, tears clinging to his eyelashes. “Part of me thought he’d be proud,” Sam confesses, faintly laughing through the tears, as though the idea of a father being proud of his son being accepted into college is absurd.

“Sammy,” Dean tells him, daring to cup Sam’s face in his hand. “ _I_ am proud.”

Sam’s hand is very warm on top of his. Dean can feel his breath against his lips, and it’s dangerous. ”Don’t think I want to leave you,” Sam whispers.

It takes everything Dean has to turn his face away, drop Sam’s wrist, and tell him: “It’s now or never, Sammy. If this is what you want- then go.”

Sam opens his mouth to say something, and for one, painfully hopeful second, Dean thinks Sam might say; _And what if what I want is right here?_

Dean has always known Sammy is too sweet for him to keep.

In the end, Sam doesn’t say anything at all. He closes his mouth, picks up the duffle that’s been tossed to the floor, and walks over to the door. On the threshold to the warm Missouri night, he turns to look at Dean, who watches him like he always has; with his heart in his eyes, offered up to Sam.

_Have it, do whatever you want with it; it’s yours to keep._

“Thank you,” Sam says softly, and then he’s gone.

Dean’s palm is still warm from where it had touched Sam’s cheek.  


	17. WIP

Dean’s confused eyes glittered prettily of green in the late afternoon sun. ”Sam, just. Please. Once we get that thing that killed mom-“

“Then what?” asked Sam, sharply. Dean flinched. “Utopia? Dad will settle down in the suburbs, the lions will lie down with the lambs?”

Dean’s face turned very white, his mouth a thin line. He said nothing.

“I’ll tell you,” Sam said, hollow. “If we do get that thing - and that’s a big if – nothing is going to change. Either we die trying, or. Or we wish we had. Nothing will change. Dad will keep living like this ‘til it kills him. I can’t stay. I want things from life, Dean. Things I can’t get here.”

A flicker of amused contempt flickered across Dean’s stony face. “Sorry for holding you back.”

Dean wanted to sound mean, Sam could tell. He didn’t. He only sounded sad, and in the end, that hurt even more. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dean stared intently to the floor. “California doesn’t sound all that terrible,” he said slowly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Maybe I could. Could tag along. You know. Get a job out there, or something.”

Oh, how _valiantly_ he tried to sound nonchalant. It made Sam ache all the way down to his bones; thinking about the pride Dean had swallowed to speak those words; about the inevitable answer he would have to give.

“Dean,” said Sam, softly. “I have to do this alone.”

Dean looked almost nauseated. “I see.”

Sam’s chest ached. “Dad needs you.”

Dean lifted his head to stare. His eyes were very, very cold. “And what about what I need?”

 _I need you_. It hung unspoken between them; pleadingly and heavy with grief.

Sam took a few steps towards Dean, who seemed to melt against him: they held each other under silence, Dean’s head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam could feel the amulet around Dean’s neck press into his chest.    

“Maybe one day I can give you what you need,” he mumbled into Dean’s hair. “But not now. Not like this.”

“Don’t forget about me,” Dean said, fingers digging into Sam’s waist.

Sam held on.


	18. WIP

John wonders what it would’ve been like. What it would’ve been like to have a wife who hadn’t been swallowed by fire. What their boys could have been, had John not been too busy repressing the smell of Mary’s burning flesh from his memory to give them a proper childhood.

To give them attention and separate beds.

To give them a chance at _decency_.

John wonders if Sammy’s soul would’ve been blackened by nursery soot, regardless of that fire.

He wonders if Dean’s hands would’ve been clean.

“Daddy?”

Sam’s too old to call him that. It sounds almost obscene; sugary sweet and lacking warmth. It makes John’s skin crawl. His knuckles go a little white around the bottle of Jack. “Sam,” he says, eyes resting gloomily on the worn-out carpet. “Go to sleep.”

Sam laughs, and it’s soft and horribly cold. John lifts his head to stare at him.

Sam’s legs are so long; he’s only fourteen, but the boy has legs that has grown for centuries. Wisps of dark bangs tickles a beautiful dark line of lashes above a cold gaze, and John feels his lungs give out when the indifference of that stare settles in his chest.

_This boy doesn’t care about him._

Sam smiles, just a little. Then he says: “I’m going to leave one day, you know.”

Sam’s eyes flicker towards the dark bedroom he shares with Dean. John wonders if holy water works on whatever it is Sammy is.

“Not that I haven’t enjoyed this cockroachy upbringing,” Sam continues, conversationally. “But it’s starting to lose its charm.”

John feels like he’s dangling from the edge of a cliff. “If you leave,” he says in a whiskey growl, “Then don’t you ever come back.”

The column of Sam’s pretty, long neck is bared when he throws his head back and laughs. “Oh daddy,” he murmurs. “I won’t come back. Not until he comes for me.”

John’s chest is tight: like a million strings closing in on soft tissue. “He won’t.”

It’s an empty wish: they both know it.

Dean would follow Sam past the gates of hell. It’s written across his soul.

Sam’s fingers are long and slender; pale against the doorframe of the room John’s put them in.

“Oh, trust me,” Sammy says, with an eerie certainty. He throws a pretty smile over his shoulder at John. It lacks warmth and humanity, and John is terrified of his own son. “He will come for me, daddy. He’s not done getting his hands dirty for me.”

Sam steps back into the darkness that John’s forced his boys to share, and John’s left behind: _achingly wondering just how much hell soot Dean already has on his hands._

 


	19. WIP

“You’re praying?”

There’s enough ridicule loitering beneath Dean’s incredulousness to make Sam flinch where he kneels beside the narrow motel bed.  

“Maybe,” he says, knuckles going white over old cotton sheets; knuckles that are still full of shattered roadhouse glass. Jo’s frightened pleas are still ringing in his ears. “Is that so wrong?”

Dean looks golden in the Tennessee darkness, arms crossed over his chest as he leans in the door opening. The evening is very quiet; Sam can hear Dean swallow, before telling Sam: “Well. There ain’t no God, choir boy.”

Sam’s gaze drops to the floor. His knees ache; like the rest of him. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t mock me.”

Dean shrugs, like this exchange doesn’t mean shit to him. Sam feels sick from how much he cares. From how much he hopes Dean isn’t right.

There has to be a God. Sam needs to put his faith in something good, because he already knows evil: he feels it inside of him; grappling at every bad intention and every dark thought he’s not strong enough to fight.

He feels the devil in his bones; _there_ _has to be a God_.

Or else, he is alone.

And the devil is so much stronger than a man.

“Don’t mock me,” Sam begs again.

In the end, Dean kneels beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. 

They don’t know it, but somewhere down a nearby river, Noah’s dove flies.


	20. WIP

John should be gone by now; he told the boys last night that he’d be crossing the state border by the time they woke up.

He isn’t. He’s in the smallest bedroom, still: shackled there by the bottle of Jack beside his bed that accompanied him and his insomnia the previous night. A sliver of crude, pale light cuts through the small door opening, and he winces.

He hears Dean’s voice first.

“Bye, Sam. I’ll see you later.”

Sam’s voice comes in a leisurely rasp; John can hear the smirk around it: “Is that how we say goodbye now?”

“Sam.”

Sam’s plea sounds like sweet decay. “Just a small kiss goodbye?”

The sound of a leather jacket curling against itself around cotton sheets, and a delighted gasp of breath. John doesn’t move.

“Not on my forehead, silly,” Sam giggles, and John fumbles around the floor for the bottle: he needs something to keep the bile down his throat.

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs. “Gonna be late.”

“Do you care?”

The unmistakable noises of a wet, dirty morning kiss: keening noises trying to escape throats, the faint rustling of sheets. John feels his heart turn to stone: his chest a heavy mass of grief and ice. Everything falls, and the faint stream of light seems to grow smaller.

It seems to go on forever. Sammy’s pleas and Dean’s murmured and amused objections; _an affectionate lovers’ spat._

When Dean finally leaves, he does so with a promise: _I’ll make it up to you later, baby brother_.

John is still, cut like ice, when the door to his bedroom is pushed open: Sammy leans in the door-opening like royalty; artfully wrapped in sheets around his pale, and lord have mercy, love-bitten collarbones.  

“Dean’s pretty,” Sammy drawls, his hair a dark and perfectly tousled halo in the cold light of morning. “But he’s not that clever. I saw your boots at the door, daddy.”

John wants to weep.

“You look a little pale,” Sam murmurs. “Nauseous, even. Too much whiskey, perhaps?”

“How long?” John finally manages into the dusty room. He’s unable to meet Sam’s victorious glare. “How long.”

Sam laughs, and it sounds like ice hitting thin glass. “For as long as I’ve wanted it to,” he tells John, cruelly. “And you shoved me into Dean’s arms when I was a baby, daddy.”

Sam leaves, and John curls beneath moth-eaten sheets.

This is evil he doesn’t know how to conquer.


	21. WIP

It’s not the loneliness that’s worst. The loneliness is excruciating, the way it at night settles like an armor of lead on top of Dean’s chest, forcing the air from his lungs; but it’s not the worst.

The worst is knowing that he can’t allow himself to _give himself to it_ ; to fully let the loneliness and grief consume him, destroy him, end him.

Because he promised Sam.

 _Find Lisa. Pray she’s dumb enough to take you_ _in_.

Dean doesn’t know how to let anyone take him in; doesn’t know how to take anyone in himself, because Sam occupies everything he is, every fiber of his being: his heart beats for him, pointlessly.

Dean’s purpose has been ripped from him. He feels like his chest should be ripped open, should bleed all over Lisa’s perfectly polished floor.

He doesn’t bleed. He just feels like he does.

The only thing that makes a mess on Lisa’s floor is mud from the Lawrence boneyard, when Dean steps inside. She cleans that up with chlorine, later.  

Dean dreams of the sound of Sam’s voice and the silk of his hair between his fingers and waking up to Lisa’s concerned dark eyes makes Dean want to scream, because he wants to wake up to Sam’s soft gaze, or not at all.

He would rather stare down a barrel of a gun than into Lisa’s soft, dark eyes: _What would you like for breakfast?_

Dean wants to ask for poison.

Every inch of Dean aches with fierce reluctance when Lisa reaches for him, smiles, or asks how his day has been. He longs for loneliness, for an empty motel room with shut blinds where he can search for sweet, soft memories of Sam at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

He mows the lawn and fucks the pretty girl Sam thought could take his place, and he hates everything. Whatever Dean has now, it’s not living, or dying, or loneliness. He takes part in a horrible charade of _moving on_ , as if there ever could be something after Sam, for Dean.

Dean’s world ended when everyone else’s didn’t, and he hates everything.

Sam is shackled somewhere in the ground below, and Dean is shackled above to the promise he made: _to carry on_.


	22. WIP

Sam cried as a child - he did. 

He wept like any fragile baby, but - only when Dean was around to lift him from the crib and coo into his ear, urging serenity back into the child.

Sam never cried when John was alone with him.

The silence was deafening and crept beneath John’s skin; _this wasn’t normal_.

Hours of silence; somber and calculating, until Dean walked over the threshold and marched his way over to the child, who instantly wept helplessly when Dean set foot in the room.

“Has he eaten?”

The accusatory question sang like a whip through the air, notes of snarling possessiveness in Dean’s young voice. John’s throat ached under Dean’s glare: cold and reproachful over Sam’s small baby head, gently cradled in Dean’s hand.

“He wouldn’t eat,” John said finally. It was true. Sam wouldn’t eat, or sleep, or cry.

Not for John.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he picked up the rejected bottle of formula next to the crib. Sam drank it down like he was starving, his small, pink fingers a gentle curl around Dean’s wrist.

Dean cooed over the boy, but John didn’t miss the flicker of fury Dean threw him.

“Dean,” said John, softly, as if speaking gently would compensate for how Dean’s hair still smelled like fire. “What happened to your mother. To Mary. I think. I think I might have a lead on it. I can’t bring you boys. I’m gonna leave you with pastor Jim for a while.”

Dean didn’t look at him: his gaze was soft and loyal to the baby in his arms. With a maturity no five-year-old should possess, he said assertively: “I’ll take care of him.”

John didn’t know why it made his gut clench with worry.

*

When John picked the boys up two weeks later, Jim had gripped his arm. John had known, instantly, what he was going to bring up: it was written all over Jim’s kind, concerned face.

“Your boy,” Jim had started, quietly. He looked like he was choosing his words carefully. “Sam. He’s…”

“A quiet child,” John murmured. “I know. It’s strange, but some babies are like that.”

Jim blinked at him, a confused little frown etched into his forehead. “Quiet?” he repeated. “John, he’s screamed since he came into the chapel. He was inconsolable.”

Unease settled in John’s gut. He asked, hollow: “Where is he now?”

Jim was quiet for a moment, before telling him evenly: “Dean took him out to the small cabin past the graveyard. They’ve slept out there. I tried to get them to come inside and sleep in the second bedroom in the back, but Sammy… He would become hysterical.”

The color drained from John’s face as unbidden and unforgivable thoughts worked their through his mind. “Maybe he’s coming down with something,” John said, hollow. “I’ll take him to see a doctor.”

Jim didn’t say much after that, but the concerned eyes burned into John’s back when he walked across the graveyard to the cabin to get his children.

John picked up the small bundle from Dean’s thin arms and looked down into Sam’s calm face. There was something far too calculating about the deep hazel eyes that met his own, and John averted his gaze, shamefully; _He couldn’t even look his own child in the eye_.

*

“Little Sammy is in perfect health,” the doctor in Detroit told John. “How is his medical history? Does he often catch a cold, a runny nose? Fever?”

John stiffly shook his head. “Never.” Not once. Not like other children.

“Well then,” she said, offering a smile. “You’ve been blessed with a very healthy child, Mr. Winchester.”

John walked out, Sam silent and frightening on his arm.

John hated every inch of himself, because he didn’t feel blessed at all.

*

John wished, thirteen years later, for silence again.

Sam turned into the nastiest kind of teenager, eyes cool; narrowed and spiteful, behind shaggy dark bangs. The sneer Sam always wore around John morphed into a sweet, adoring expression around Dean, lashes batting and adorning Dean’s cheeks with a pink blush.

John knew it was wrong to hate his own child and his heart bled for Mary, but all he could muster for the stranger in front of him, his youngest boy, was a cold terror and carefully hidden loathing.  

“Are you hungry?” John asked out of guilt, not concern, and his stomach clenched as he watched Sam from the door opening.

Sam was draped across the moth-eaten piece of motel furniture, long legs thrown gracefully across the armrest. He lifted his head carefully; measured John up with the same cool, detached gaze that had made John’s skin crawl for years.

“Do you care?” It was polite, conversational. His voice had yet to break: he was a _child_.

John wanted to weep.

“Sam. Please, don’t. Of course I do.”

Sam put his heavy book away, limbs leisurely stretching. “Dean will be home soon,” he said. “He said he’d take me out tonight. There’s a diner down the street.”

John didn’t know what to say, because Sam’s soft smirk, golden and cruel in the late afternoon sun, punched the air from his lungs.

When Dean came from home, Sam tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin and complained about hunger. Dean’s glare at John is far too familiar, and he wrapped his arm around Sam’s slender waist. “Get your jacket,” John heard Dean murmur into dark hair. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

Sam didn’t look at John when he strode past him, he didn’t have to: the victorious, faint smile that played over his pink little mouth was enough.

_He’s not yours anymore._

*

John should have tried harder to reach Dean. He knew, felt it, saw it: the way Dean yearned for his approval and praise, he felt it in every unhesitating ‘ _yessir’_ Dean would offer after every order John barked at him. He knew it was there; potential he couldn’t bring himself to explore. He could feel Dean’s thirst to be needed and deserving and valued.

John would forever hate himself for not being able to give Dean that, because of a distraction: a dark, black glare, threatening and promising.

John knew his neglect drove Dean, golden and lovely and kind, into Sam’s waiting arms.

Of all the things John hated himself for, this was the one thing that lay forever beyond redemption.

*

Dean’s neck was blue and bitten beneath his hoodie, and John’s blood ran cold when he realized: Dean didn’t leave the motel room last night, and the whiskey hadn’t drowned the noise coming from the small room Sam had insisted John would let them share: _Really daddy, the way you snore, we need a door to close._

John asked, hollow and with a horribly empty pretense of curiosity: “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed in Zeppelin’s fourth into the cassette player of the Impala. “Dad.”

“Really, _dad_ ,” Sam drawled from the backseat. John caught his malicious, haughty smirk in the rearview mirror. “Don’t you trust your own sons’ with our secrets?”

John looked at Sam, felt his heart break from exhaustion and realization, and fell quiet.

John’s mouth was slack and tired, too exhausted to reply: _I don’t trust my sons with anything._

John started the engine.

Dean’s neck was still blue, his lovely eyes green, wide and adoring: all for Sam, the silent child.

John regretted it, that one sentence. _Take your brother outside as fast as you can._

Sam should have burned.


	23. WIP

Dean doesn’t want to be who Sammy has twisted him into.

He doesn’t want to be the perverted big brother who can’t keep his hands off his long-legged, lollipop-stained-mouthed brother.

Dean doesn’t want to be weak, _but he is,_ because Sam has reached inside him and wrapped long, childish fingers around his heart and _tugged_ , and Dean is owned.

Dean knows he should stop it, this _thing_.

Sam crawling into his lap whenever John takes off: all narrow hips and sharp collarbones; the prettiest mouth mumbling filth against Dean’s neck. _Just your hands, I’ll only use my mouth, we can keep our clothes on_.

They never keep their clothes on.

Dean tries very hard. He lists all the reasons they shouldn’t, and then he takes one look at Sammy’s sooty eyelashes and the tip of that pink tongue lined up against a smirk, and he’s gone.

Sam is far too young to be fucked the way Dean fucks him: he licks him open and makes him cry furious tears into filthy motel sheets before Dean lines up his swollen cock against his sweet little brother’s spit-soaked rim, and Dean’s chest is thick and drowning with self-loathing when he growls: “Beg for it.”

Sam looks so young when he blinks up at him, lazily in the darkness. Like he’s so surprised, every time: like he’s innocent in all this.

Dean wants to fuck that righteousness right out of him; wants to see his own despair and guilt on Sammy’s treacherous face just _once_. “ _Beg_ ,” he demands again.

Sam bites his lip, and then he says with a voice that sounds like a giggle over broken glass: “I can beg if it gets you off, big brother.” _If it makes you feel better_.

Dean fucks Sam with his fingers shoved in his mouth to keep him quiet.

This is the last time, Dean vows.

He knows it isn’t.


	24. WIP

Soulless!sam has just finished a case and is looking to blow off some steam at a bar where he finds dean smith having an after work drink with colleagues. He’s prim and proper and the prettiest fucking thing Sam has ever seen, pink mouthed and lovely.

He blushes and looks a little bit nervous when Sam eyes him from the bar, and when Sam corners him in the men’s room he glares up at him. “Save it for the health club, pal” he says and Sam just smirks at him, mumbles against dean’s mouth “shut the fuck up” and kisses him.

Dean whines in a weak protest but he soon gives in, and Sam puts him to his knees right there where anyone can walk in on them. Sam fucks that pretty mouth right there, and dean asks hoarsely with sam’s come still at the back of his tongue to come back to dean’s apartment. Sam drags him to his feet and says darkly into dean’s ear: lead the way.

When they get back to dean’s, Sam rips those proper clothes off of dean and fucks him so deep and good dean’s seeing stars, he’s moaning like a girl and begs for more, please, fuck, it’s so good, you’re so big. He falls asleep bruised and fucked out and exhausted with his arm across sam’s chest. In the morning, dean’s mouth goes dry when Sam emerges from the bathroom: he’s so beautiful; and dean can’t help himself. “When can I see you again?”

Sam arches an eyebrow at him, smiles a little, as though dean’s question amuses him. Dean’s gut clenches.

“I’m just passing through,” Sam says. “we had fun last night, right?”

Dean swallows, feels disappointment and shame prickle in his chest. There’s something about this man that is so achingly familiar, letting him go feels wrong.

He swallows his pride, and scribbles his phone number on a piece of paper. “If you ever come around again,” he mumbles, and pushes the note in sam’s hand.

Sam gives him a nod, curls his hand around the note, and leaves.

Later, dean finds the piece of paper thrown into a corner of his elevator. He never imagined a one night stand could break his heart.


	25. WIP

Alabama is sweet in July. The night breezes smell like fields and gasoline through the open windows of the small kitchen in the house John managed to deal them over the summer. He’s not around himself, of course. Bobby called up a week ago: troubles with a ghoul a state over, and Sam and Dean passes the slow summer days alone.

Dean shoplifted a bottle of wine earlier today. He tells Sam wine is for chicks, for women who want to feel sexy for their husbands: they drink it and giggle and wear lingerie and sooty eye makeup.

Sam had asked Dean why he didn’t steal some beer or Jack instead, and blushed when Dean had thrown him a lazy, warm smirk: “Maybe I want my pretty little wife to giggle for me tonight, Sammy.”

It’s still new, this thing between them. A few months ago, huddled up in a small bed together with John passed out on the couch next to them, that’s when it had started. A snowstorm had raged outside their drafty hunter’s cabin in North Dakota, not that Sam blames the cold for the way he’d curled up next to Dean and thrown one thigh over Dean’s hips.

Sam had wondered what Dean’s cock would feel like against his inner thigh for a long, long time.

It was all downhill from there.

Kisses; wet and dirty, and murmured praise beneath the covers. Dean’s big brother hands all over Sammy’s kid waist and hips. Sam hadn’t known how he’d lived without it.

Sam is still blushing when he says: “That’s your plan for tonight? You gonna get me drunk?”

Dean’s smirk is still infuriating and attractive and it sends shivers down Sam’s spine. “Not drunk, baby boy. A little tipsy, perhaps.” Dean puts a deck of cards on the kitchen table and opens the bottle of cheap, red wine.

He pours it up into whiskey glasses and cocks his head to the table. “Have a seat.”

*

Sammy’s feeling like Dean said he would. Dazed, a little sexy. Of course, he’s shirtless, and the way Dean’s eyes keep flickering over his naked collarbones might help with that.

Sam’s nowhere near Dean’s skill when it comes to poker.

Dean started out bluffing him out of his hoodie; _Sam should’ve known better than to fold two pairs after Dean had checked pre-flop_ , but Dean has this way of getting into his head. He bets so easily, and the flop had an ace.

Sam took home the next round: his diamond flush was made on the turn, and he wouldn’t let Dean outbet him here. Dean lost his socks, and Sam scowled at him. _Really_?

Dean had smiled, chugged back more wine, and dealt a new hand.

“Getting cold, Sammy?” Dean asks a while later, the tip of his pink tongue grazing his full upper lip when Sam pushes his jeans over his hips.

Sam tosses his useless set of jacks to the table. _Of course, Dean’s open-ended straight draw came home on the river. Dick._ Dean’s chest is very golden in the soft evening light, and everything about Dean’s cocky demeanor makes Sam want to kneel beneath the table and take Dean’s cock out and suck him off until he’s a moaning, pleading mess.

He doesn’t. Sammy just smiles a little shyly and blinks at Dean across the table from behind his long hair. “Enjoying the view, big brother?”

Dean’s eyes are very dark when he tells Sam, a little shakily: “Just deal the hand, you fucking tease. Gonna get you out of those boxers. Wanna see your pretty ass.”

Sam’s cock is hard when he deals the cards, slowly, because the wine slows everything down. It’s quiet, Zeppelin’s fourth that Dean put on a while ago has stopped spinning, and Sam wonders if Dean can hear the sound of Sam’s heart beating across the small kitchen table.

He hopes so.

Sam is dealt pocket eights. Halfway to dead man’s hand, he shoves. “All in,” he says, and it lights up Dean’s eyes. Sam wonders if it’s a good idea to shove all in pre-flop with such a weak pair. He guesses he’ll find out.

“You don’t have much to bet though, do you?” Dean murmurs. “Fine, sweetheart. I call.”

Sam shows his eights, and can’t help smirking when Dean shows him his weak ace. “You got my ace of spades,” Sam remarks. “There goes my dead man’s hand.”

Dean clicks his tongue a little. _Sam’s so hard_.

The flop isn’t exciting. Sam’s eights are still good, and Dean crosses his arms across his chest.

The turn is an ace, of course it fucking is, and Sam can’t help the little grunt that escapes him. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , how did Dean get so lucky all the damn time?

Dean grins across the table, and runs his naked foot along the inside of Sam’s leg beneath the table. “Don’t look like that baby,” Dean purrs patronizingly. “You still got two outs. Another eight and I’m losing my jeans.”

Sam glares. He lays out the river card. It’s the ace of cloves, and Dean laughs quietly across the table. “I should go to Vegas,” he says, rubbing his fingers together. “Man, I’d make us rich.”

Sam shoves his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, mouth curled into a sneer. Just because he’s horny that doesn’t mean Dean’s luck doesn’t piss him off.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Not like that, Sammy.” His voice drops. “Get on the floor. Back to me. Make it slow.”

The blush spreads, heatedly, down Sammy’s neck and chest. He gets to the floor, and Dean let’s out a low whistle when he sees Sam’s hard cock strain inside his boxers. “Damn baby,” he mumbles. “Maybe I should humiliate you more often, hm? You seem to like it.”

“Fuck you,” Sam says over his shoulder as he walks over to the middle of the small kitchen floor. He can feel Dean’s gaze on the curve of his ass, and he almost whines, cause he wants Dean’s hands on him: on his hips, his naked little chest; wants to feel Dean’s fingertips brush against his tight little hole. Fuck, _he wants_.

He pushes his boxers down over his slim little hips and lets them fall to the floor. The faint breeze through the open window causes little goosebumps. Everything is quiet: he can hear the faint rustling in the trees outside and the distant roar of a car driving past in the distance.

He can hear Dean’s breath catch in his throat behind him. Sam’s cock strains against his stomach.

“Bend over the counter,” Dean finally says, voice low. All mirth in his voice from before is gone now, and Sam obeys instantly. He walks over to the kitchen counter and bends over it; hisses a little at the cold. He feels more than he hears Dean rise from his chair.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean mutters as he walks across the kitchen. “Do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?”

Sam only whimpers, because Dean’s finally touching him: strong fingers digging into Sam’s hip as one hand curls around his neck. Sam can feel Dean’s hard cock through the rough denim against Sam’s bare little ass, and Dean’s breath is warm against Sam’s neck. “You want my fingers, don’t you?”

Sam nods, wordlessly, and he feels Dean laugh softly against him. Dean shoves two fingers against Sam’s little mouth. “ _Soak ‘em_ ,” Dean growls. “Get them wet, Sammy, cause this is the only prep you’re getting.”

Sam sucks them into his mouth, teases the fingertips with the tip of his tongue. Dean curses against his neck; it’s filthy and beautiful, and it almost makes Sam come untouched with Dean’s fingers shoved down his throat.

Sam vows silently to always fold for Dean.


	26. WIP

“And what about us?” Dean asked into rain thick air.

Sam looked like one of those clouds that carried thunder; dark and looming and beautiful and Dean felt the world vibrate with expectancy. Soon, there would be lightning.

A bolt would light up all confusion for a moment. Sam would speak, and it would be sharp and mean; but he would speak, there would be a moment of light, and that was enough for Dean.

“There is no us. There never was. There was only ever boredom, and you. None of it was real, don’t you get that?”

Dean was struck by lightning. His heart seemed to stop and an excruciating pain prickled under his skin. Everything was too bright.

Sam left, after that. The thunder went silent.


	27. WIP

Dean has a certain notebook where he writes down the names and phone numbers to the girls he hooks up with across the country.

Sam finds it one day.

Dean doesn’t know what the small, black x’s that start to show up next to some of the girls’ names mean, or why they won’t pick up the phone when he calls anymore.

John curses about missing bleach and knives.


	28. WIP

Sam is thirteen when he realizes he wants his big brother in all the wrong ways.

It’s an accident when he walks into the messy living room of their motel room after school and finds Dean spread across the couch, working that seventeen-year-old cock with his fist; pink bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth as he moans obscenely into the afternoon sun.

The sight and the noise and the way Dean _moves_ ignites something inside Sam, makes his dick twitch, and he gasps a little in surprise.

That’s when Dean notices him. His mouth form a little o in surprise, before he tugs his jeans back up over his hips, roaring with laughter.

“You little pervert,” Dean says around a grin. “Next time, clear your throat or something before just walking in like that. Jesus Christ, Sammy.”

Sam blushes, and it only makes Dean laugh harder.

Sam looks at the curve in the front of Dean’s jeans. Sam knows he will fall asleep thinking about it.

Wondering what it would feel like beneath his fingertips.  

*

Sam is sixteen when he presses himself to the bedroom door, his palm pressing against his hard cock through his jeans as he listens to Dean fucking some bubblegum blonde he picked up at the local bar. Sam only caught a glimpse of her before Dean steered her into their dad’s room: it has been vacant for two weeks now, because the shifter in Georgia had proved to be a tricky fucker.

Dean’s low grunts and filthy whispers through the door makes Sam stifle a whine in his throat, a pearl of sweat breaking through his temple as he wishes so intensely he would be the one in there, beneath Dean; taking everything Dean would give him.

Then, Dean makes a low, wonderful noise that makes Sam claw at the door.

He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself.

There’s a brief silence, murmured voices, and before Sam knows what’s going on, Dean hauls the door open.

Sam stares at them, like a deer caught in headlight. The room smells like pussy and sex, and Dean looks so beautiful: his chest is rosy, his mouth red. Sam hates himself.

“ _What the fuck_?” the girl on the bed says, smudged lipstick staining her cheek as she stares disgustedly at Sam.

“I’m sorry,” Sam stammers, face hot with shame. “I wasn’t-“

“Wasn’t spying on us like some fucking _creep_?” the girl asks, while pulling on her dress. She picks up her stilettos and fumbles around the nightstand for her purse.

Dean hurries up to her. “Hey,” he says, and he’s using _that voice_. That soft, strange voice that Sam hates; Dean’s _girl voice_ , the one that makes Sam think of a lynx that is trying very hard to pass for a housecat. “You don’t have to leave. He’s just a kid, he doesn’t matter. Come on, baby. Stay.”

Sam should leave, but he remains: frozen to the spot.

_He’s just the kid that doesn’t matter._

Dean’s shoulders are freckled. Sam bets she hasn’t even noticed.

She scoffs, shoves Dean’s hand off her arm, and wordlessly pushes past Sam with a dirty glare thrown at him. The front door open and closes, and Sam is left alone with Dean, whose mouth is pressed into an unimpressed line.

“This,” Dean says coldly, “Just stopped being funny.”

*

Sam is eighteen when the letter from Stanford arrives.

He hides it under come stained sheets. He allows himself a week, before he tells Dean.

One more week of watching his beautiful big brother. Sam doesn’t know when the lust faded unwantedly into love and possessiveness, but somewhere along the way, it had. 

There’s no part of Dean he doesn’t want, no note in his voice that Sam doesn’t know by heart; not a beat of Dean’s heart that Sam doesn’t wish he could feel against his own.

Sam knows Dean loves him.

Sam knows Dean loves him the way one _should_ love one’s brother; fiercely and simply.

Sam just looks at the line of Dean’s sun-kissed throat and _wants_. And it doesn’t feel simple.

When the week is up, Sam steals a final glance of freckled shoulders beneath August sun.

Sam wants to kiss each freckle goodbye, but he can’t. Instead, he does what Dean asked, all those years ago -  

He clears his throat. “Dean,” he says quietly. “I gotta tell you something.”

 


	29. WIP

The knock on the motel room door that jolts Dean awake is firm and certain, and Dean groans as he throws the covers away and shuffles towards the door, cursing his headache under his breath as he kicks the empty bottles of Jack beneath the couch.

It’s cold as fuck.

Dean completely expects the bitch-faced receptionist with bleached blonde hair to sourly inform him that it’s checkout time. He tries to school his hungover face into a charming smile, and pushes the door open.

Time stops.

Sam stands outside the door, looking very much like he had the last time Dean saw him: achingly beautiful, with unruly dark bangs in his eyes and with his backpack thrown over his shoulder. He looks at Dean, softly, and Dean’s grip go tight around the door.

“Hi,” Sam says; he looks beautifully lost and embarrassed and happy and Dean’s heart leaps.

“Sammy,” Dean rasps out. His face hurts. He hasn’t smiled in months, because it’s November.

Sam left in August.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam tells him, throws a look over Dean’s shoulder. “Is he here?”

Dean shakes his head. He reaches for Sam’s wrist. _Come inside, let me hold you. You’re warm, I’m so cold._

“Case,” Dean murmurs, and then, Sam’s inside. It’s eager and hot and perfect, the way Sam pushes him up against the wall and licks his mouth open. They kiss like they always do; wetly and with tongue and teeth and with needy noises clawing inside their throats. It’s like breathing again, and Dean is terrified of letting go.

He hasn’t breathed in months. It’s November, and everything is so cold.

When they part, and breathe, Dean asks: “You’re back?”

Sam nods, and that ridiculous hair tickles the bridge of Dean’s nose. “I couldn’t,” Sam says quietly into the warm space between them. His fingers are firm where they dig into Dean’s shoulders. Dean wants them there forever. “Couldn’t leave you. Dean. I couldn’t.”

Dean closes his eyes. It’s so warm, and so lovely. Everything blurs, all bloodshed and horror bleeds into a beautiful pattern and Dean feels so safe.

Sam is back.

He is, but something. Something isn’t right.

Sam’s face goes blurry. There’s a banging in the distance.

Dean wakes up just in time to see John open the door for the motel receptionist. Dean can feel her unimpressed scowl to his bones as she takes in John’s three-hour eye-shut appearance and Dean on the couch, a bottle of Jack next to him.

“Checkout time,” she drawls. “Five minutes.”

John shuts the door in her face and barks at Dean to get his stuff.

It’s November, and Dean’s never been this cold before.


	30. WIP

Sam watches Dean’s hand move over the weapon, it clicks in his hands and makes noises Sam has heard a million times before: listening to Dean cleaning his guns had been his lullaby for years, and suddenly it’s right there again - the sight of Dean; looking so certain and beautiful it makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat.

Sam wants to reach out for him, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have that right anymore. He hasn’t had that right since that night four years ago in Milwaukee when he’d looked at Dean’s terrified face and said, quietly: _Don’t come after me_.  

“So, what do you think?” Dean asks, eyes on the gun on his lap, unaware of Sam’s soft gaze lingering on his hands: long-fingered and strong, stained with motor-oil. Sam swallows.

“About what?”

Dean lifts his head, stares, and raises an eyebrow. “Do we have a case?”

Sam thinks about the dead girl in the lake and about how sometimes, people just drowned. He doesn’t know if they have a case. He doesn’t know how to stop staring at Dean’s mouth. Sam hasn’t felt that mouth beneath his own in four years.

Sometimes, people just drowned.

Sam says, “Dean. Do you think we should. Should talk?”

Dean’s hand goes still. It hovers over the piece of metal, and Sam feels the air in the room shift as everything goes silent; the silence is so sharp and unyielding that Sam can feel it, it crawls beneath his skin.

Sam can’t stand it, so he continues, the words stumbling out of him: “We haven’t. We haven’t, not since. Since you came to get me. Since that night. It’s ruining me. Dean, please. Talk.”

A humorless smirk flickers across Dean’s face. “Ruining you?” Dean repeats. It sounds faintly bitter. “Well, we can’t have that. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

Dean’s face is a locked and bolted fortress.

“I miss us,” Sam tells him weakly, because he’s so _sick_ of pretending he doesn’t. He’s pretended for four years to be someone he’s not; he’s pretended he’s someone who goes to classes and falls in love with innocent blonde girls. He used to want to be that person, but he isn’t.

Sam doesn’t know who he is, but he knows he belongs with Dean. _To Dean_.

He doesn’t want to drown. Dean looks like the shoreline.    

“That,” Dean says coldly, “Is not up for discussion.”

Sam’s throat aches. He takes a step closer to Dean, whose knuckles go white around the pistol. “I know I hurt you,” Sam tries. “I was scared. I left because I thought I had to. But Dean, I never stopped loving you.”

The gun clatters to the floor when Dean rises from the bed and shoves Sam up against the wall, his fists clenched in Sam’s shirt. Dean’s green, beautiful glare is vicious, and Sam waits for Dean to hurt him. Sam wants him to. He wants to hurt; wants to take just a fraction of what Dean carries.

Dean smells like old leather and roadhouse beer. He smells like falling in love for the first time when you’re fourteen and terrified, because the boy who makes your knees weak is your sunshine bright big brother.

Sam holds his breath and watches, disappointed, how Dean’s fury bleeds into sadness. Dean’s grip loosens, his sooty eyelashes fans out across his freckled cheeks when he drops his glare, defeatedly. “What the hell do you want from me, Sammy?”

Sam feels the rest of the sentence stretch between them, even if Dean is too kind, heartbreakingly so, to speak it. _What the hell do you want from me that I haven’t already given you? That you threw away?_

Sam reaches for Dean, curls his fingers gently at the back of Dean’s neck. He feels Dean go a little stiff with resistance, and he hates himself. “I just. Dean, I’m yours. I am, even if you don’t want me after what I did. I’ll never not be yours.”

Dean closes his eyes. Sam feels him go slack in his arms, like he’s giving up. “Don’t do this to me,” Dean says in a small, terrified voice. “Sam, it’s not _fair_.”

Sam tilts Dean’s head towards his, and the feeling of free falling surges through his stomach when Dean’s eyes draw open again, green and glittering. Sam leans down. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his mouth so close to Dean’s he can feel the warmth of Dean’s shallow breathing.

Dean pushes him away, softly. He turns his face from Sam’s, and murmurs: “Stop.”

Dean is warm and sad in Sam’s arms, strong because he thinks he has to be, and Sam wonders if this is what drowning feels like. “I’ll be here when you’re ready,” he tells Dean quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean smiles faintly.

It’s enough to keep Sam swimming.


	31. WIP

Dean has friends over, two girls. They have pigtails and lipstick, tits pushed up to their fucking _chin_ and Sam hates them with a fury. John’s out of town and the trio is playing truth or dare in the living room, passing around a stolen bottle of Jack.

Little Sammy should be asleep, but he hides behind the corner: sitting on the floor in Dean’s forgotten hoodie while he listens to the girly giggles and Dean’s smooth voice that’s getting raspier with every whiskey sip.

“So,” one of the girls says in that obnoxious, sugary drawl that makes Sam’s skin crawl. “Dean. Describe your dream girl.”

“Who said I have a dream girl?” Dean slurs cockily. “I’ll describe my dream boy.”

Sam can’t breathe, his eyes widens, and he bites into the sleeve, hard.

_Dream boy?_

“He’s a little geeky, you know? Book smart. Dark hair, don’t mind if it’s long. Pretty eyes, green or brown, doesn’t matter. Cute little mouth.” Dean’s voice drops, and Sam’s heart beats furiously in his chest when Dean continues, smugly: “Skinny little hips, long legs that wraps easily around my hips. You with me?”

The girls sound both excited and disappointed when they squeal in response.

Little Sammy smiles into his sleeve.

He waits for the girls to leave.


	32. WIP

“Two beers,” John says over the bar top as he reaches deep into his pocket for the credit card, _Aframian’s_ _buying_. The bar smells like stale beer and peanuts, like old wooden tiles that has been scrubbed with cheap green soap for years.

Two women with too much makeup make eyes at John. They smell like cheap perfume and desperation, and he couldn’t have cared less. Him and Dean are hunting a ghoul, and they’re closing in on the thing.

The bartender measures him up with a curious stare, her eyes flickering over to Dean who has taken a table in the corner where he’s hunched over a map. John assumes she would have preferred if Dean had ordered: She looks like the type of girl who wouldn’t mind batting her eyelashes at a kid as good looking as Dean.

She pushes a bowl of peanuts at him, along with the beers. “On the house,” she says. She adds, quietly, her dark eyes glinting a little in the dimly lit bar: “So, how did you do it?”

John falters. If she’s a hunter, she’s done a damn good job at hiding it: everything about this thin wristed, bubblegum chewing girl breathes _civilian_ , and he raises an eyebrow. “How did I do what?”

She smirks a little conspiratorially and nods at Dean in the corner. “How did you break through that forcefield?” she asks, and John feels his confused frown deepen across his face. “I mean,” she continues, twirling a strand of long black hair around her finger, “The way your boy over there was all over that tall, dark handsome thing he showed up with… Hell, the way they _both_ were all over each other. Never would’ve guessed they’d ever even look at anyone else.”

John stares. “You’re mistaken,” he says, flatly. “Dean’s never-“

“Oh right, that was his name,” the girl says, lightly, seemingly completely unfazed by the way the color drains from John’s face or the way his knuckles go white arounds the beer bottles. “And what was the name of the other one? Sean, something.”

“Sam,” John says, tonelessly, feeling everything fall. Nothing has changed: the women still glance at him, the bar still smells like decades of bad decisions, and Dean is still hiding in the corner behind the map. Nothing has changed, but everything has, because now John understands.

He understands why Dean had protested when John had pulled over for this particular roadhouse. He understands everything; little thirteen-year-old Sam’s flushed little cheeks and tousled hair, Sam’s dark glare whenever Dean showed up late smelling of girl perfume.

He understands the tears and the hushed conversation John had overheard that night a couple of months ago, when Sam had announced his departure.

_“-find someone else?”_

_A faint rustle of something, Sam’s gentle voice, low and distressed._

_“Dean. I never would.”_

The girl seems to read John’s stony silence as jealousy, because she giggles: “Don’t worry sugar, you’ve got him now right?”

John stares at her wordlessly, before he stalks to the table in the back and slams the bottles down in front of Dean who looks up at him, eyes wide and terrified. “Dad,” he says immediately, his voice faint and urgent. “Please. I can. I can explain.”

John glares stonily down at him. “Not a word, Dean. I don’t want to hear it.”

Dean blinks tears away. “I just-“

“I told Sam not to come back,” John interrupts him, coldly. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay gone.”

Dean weeps into the map under silence while John finishes off his beer like medication.

The bartender’s words linger in John’s head: _The way they both were all over each other. Never would’ve guessed they’d ever even look at anyone else._

The next round, John orders whiskey.


	33. WIP

Neither of them know when it happens. They don’t have one of those kisses that you see on the silver screen, because fairytale endings were never meant for people like them, anyway. They don’t murmur confessions to each other beneath starclad heavens.

They don’t talk about it when Dean stops collecting girls’ phone numbers in seedy bars, or when Sam’s hand finds Dean’s in the darkness of a drive between Dallas and Memphis – the silence isn’t heavy, or tense. It’s light and simple, and they smile a little at each other when their hands go slick with sweat after a while.

It’s just. It’s very easy, and they don’t talk about it.

They fall in love, and it’s very slow. It’s not dramatic, the way their brotherhood bleeds into something else: something that makes Dean say ‘yes’ when a motel clerk assumes a king-sized bed, that one night in Fayetteville.

Sam just holds his ground, and remains by Dean’s side; shoulder to shoulder, he takes the keys, and Dean looks at him and smiles: it’s beautiful, and it makes Sam’s heart leap in his chest.

He wants to feel that smile beneath his own mouth, and. And that’s when Sam kisses Dean, just a quick peck: the motel clerk raises an eyebrow, but Sam doesn’t care because Dean blinks up at him, stunned and happy, and the keys seem to burn in Sam’s hand.

They spend years falling in love, or maybe they spend years realizing that what they share is something that is soul-deep and unique, an unrivalled love, and when people ask them what they are, they don’t know what to say.

They look at each other, and they see their world. They kiss, and fall asleep curled around each other, and every new motel room feels like coming home because they’re together, and perhaps it doesn’t matter what they say they are.

Perhaps, it just matters that Sam knows what Dean’s lips feel like against his.

Perhaps this, _what they have_ , is the one easy, simple thing they have.


	34. WIP

Dean is packing his duffle when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and for the fraction of a second, he’s convinced that a stranger is staring back at him.

He straightens his back and looks again. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror a lot, these past years – not much to see, he’d figured. Now, he _looks_.

New scars. The same guilt-ridden tautness in his shoulders. He doesn’t look young anymore: the fullness to his mouth that has been there has faded, the lines around his eyes are sharp and tells tales of sleepless nights full of whiskey. There used to be a playful gleam in his eyes, but he realizes now that he’s lost it somewhere along the road: he looks somber and tight jawed, and there’s a touch of grey around his temples.

He looks like John had, the last years of his life; tired and pinched, the planes of his face a little mean looking.

Dean looks away.

“Hey.”

Dean turns around. Sam’s watching him, standing in the door opening with his arms crossed over his chest. He smiles softly, and Dean’s heart flutters in his chest; _nothing’s changed, there_.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“Same as you,” Sam says easily and steps into the room, one eyebrow arched. “Admiring the view.”

Dean scoffs out a disbelieving laughter and feels his cheeks go a little warm. “You’re cheesy.” His eyes flickers back his reflection again. He adds in a murmur: “Ain’t that much of a view anymore, anyway.”

Sam walks up behind him, and Dean’s breath catches a little in his throat when Sam’s fingers curl around his waist. It’s a little softer these days, and he bites his lip as his gaze drops to the floor.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles into his ear, his warm breath sending shivers down his spine. “Look up for me.”

Dean does. He stares at them in the mirror: Sam’s behind him, one arm wrapped around Dean’s waist, his long hair falling in a soft curl around his face. He still looks young, Dean thinks: his mouth is still pink and soft, his gaze glittering. He looks like something Dean doesn’t want to tarnish.

“Do you know what my biggest fear has been?” Sam asks quietly, running his knuckles softly against the scruff of Dean’s jaw.

Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s in the mirror, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Dean feels Sam swallow, his grip around Dean growing a little tighter. “That I never would get to see you like this,” Sam says. Dean almost, _almost,_ misses the tremor in his voice. “That I wouldn’t get to see you age. Dean, I’ve been so terrified I’d have to go on living, without you. With just. With just the memory of your young face, while I grew older.”

Dean’s fingers find Sam’s; braids them together. “Sam.”

“You have no idea, do you,” Sam murmurs. “Just how beautiful you are to me like this. You’re. You’re _alive_ , and ageing. Dean, you’re so _perfect_.”

Sam turns Dean around gently, lifts his chin, and Dean feels like he’s sixteen years old again; melting into Sam’s arms, just as powerless as he had been all those years ago when he’d first realized how _gone_ he was for his beautiful baby brother.

Sam’s mouth is hot against Dean’s when he whispers: “Never been more in love with you.”

Dean throws his arms around Sam’s neck. They kiss, and it’s so simple and perfect, and when Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s hair, he thinks: _I need centuries more of_ _this_.


	35. WIP

They’ve been together on the road again for exactly 15 hours when Dean finds it.

Dean doesn’t mean to be nosy, doesn’t even _reflect_ as he reaches for Sam’s bag: He just wants to borrow a T-shirt, because he’s all covered in river mud and maybe, just maybe, he wants to feel soft cotton that smells of Sam on his skin again.

It’s been four years, after all, but Dean reaches into Sam’s duffle with the same ease he’s done so many times before, although.

Although, something is off.

The atmosphere shifts in the room, the ease of their affectionate banter subsides like it was never there at all, and he feels Sam tense up across the room. The soft chuckle seems to go dry in Sam’s throat, and alarm settles in Dean’s gut.

Dean unfolds the T-shirt with a flick of his wrist, and something small clatters to the floor.

Dean stares at the piece of jewelry, and the hard rock seems to glare coldly back at him: it blinds him where it flickers cruelly beneath the florescent light.

It’s the kind of ring that looks out of place on a dirty motel room floor. It’s the kind of ring that looks out of place _everywhere_ , except for on the finger of a pretty girl.

 _A girl like Jessica_.  

Dean’s heart seems to slow down as he remembers.

_Sam’s mouth had been warm with promise against Dean’s; long warm finger resting against the line of his neck as the Missouri night clung heavily to them, stuffy and smelling of asphalt and gasoline._

_“I’ll always be yours,” Sam had promised, eyelashes wet where they fanned out across his pale cheeks. “But this life, being a soldier in his army… Dean, I can’t do it anymore.”_

_Dean’s fingers had curled in Sam’s hair, and he’d murmured softly: “I’ll fight for both of us, Sammy. Until. Until it’s done. And then I’ll come for you. We’ll be together.”_

_Sam had kissed him then, beneath the starless sky, before placing gentle fingers to the amulet around Dean’s neck. “This,” he’d said, softly. “I know it’s stupid, but I’ve always thought about this, like. You know.”_

_Dean had smiled through tears. “Me too, Sammy. Me too.”_

The ring still glares at Dean when he finally asks, hollow: “Silver?”

Sam’s voice is horribly gentle when he says: “White gold.”

The color drains from Dean’s face, and he feels like an idiot where he stands: Four years after that pathetic night on the parking lot, still with the stupid amulet around his neck, like it still _means_ something. He manages at last: “I see.”

Sam sounds close to tears. “Dean, I-“

“Looks like someone traded up,” Dean interrupts, coldly.

He tosses the T-shirt to the bed. It takes all he has not to step on the ring when he walks to the bathroom, where he slams the door shut.

Dean stares at his filthy, pale reflection in the mirror and tries very hard not to imagine Sam picking up the ring from the dusty floor.  


	36. WIP

Sam watches under a tense silence as Dean brings the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and drinks it down like water; his Adam’s apple bobbing against the starched collar of his FBI suit.

Sam hasn’t seen Dean in four years, and. Dean looks like he did when Sam left for Stanford: freckled and so pretty it makes him want to tear up, but there is a foreign distance in Dean’s eyes, a distance Sam is terrified of, and he wants to yank the bottle of Jack out of Dean’s hands.

“Dean,” Sam tries, and his voice is a little awkward in harsh in the silence of their shitty motel room. “That night when I left. I wanted to. I wanted to tell you something.”

“That night when you left,” Dean said, with a bitter smirk into the liquor, “Is what I’ve been trying to forget for years. Don’t. Don’t remind me, Sam. _Please_.”

Sam’s throat goes tight with silence, and he watches Dean finish of what’s left of the bottle, methodically, like medication.

Sam realizes that it is. He swallows, and tries to find the words.

_I wanted to stay. I wanted to be with you, wanted to be with you in a way that scared me and sickened me and I didn’t know how to ask for something you never would’ve given me._

In the end, Sam says into hands that still have Stanford ink stains on them: “If you’d known the truth, you would’ve wanted me to leave.”

Dean’s eyes are still distant and menacing, fixed on the old label of the bottle. He says: “Guess we’ll never know.”


	37. WIP

John wakes up and tries to hide the liquor on his breath with coffee so black it moves like tar in the dirty motel mug before he gets into the Impala and drives across the country in search for darkness.

When Dean tells Sam that their father hunts bad things, Sam giggles.

Because little Sammy knows how to hide in plain sight.

Sam watches through his lashes as John packs his bag: holy water, gun, silver bullets.

A bible.

Sam rolls over in the warm bed and pretends to be asleep: Dean is warm and close next to him, sleeping soundly. Sam can feel John’s tired gaze fall on them for a minute, and the room is silent with goodbyes he knows John won’t bother to voice.

Shuffling steps, a key in the lock, and the roar of the Impala.

Sam smiles softly into the pale morning light.

When Dean wakes up, Sam’s close: dark eyes heavily lidded, a sleepy smirk that looks indecent on his young face. His fingertips are feathery light on Dean’s shoulder, counting the faint sprinkle of freckles there.

“You’re pretty when you sleep,” Sam tells Dean. His voice is very quiet, and Dean blushes like a virgin.

“You’re pretty when you’re awake,” Dean says, and Sam slides unhurriedly on top of him, grinding their barely dressed warm bodies together. Dean makes a beautiful noise somewhere between a plea and a whine, and Sam can smell the guilt on his neck.

It smells like victory, and Sam keeps smiling when he thinks of John out there: _I have to protect you boys._

John never realizes that the call is coming from inside the house. That when he locks the motel room door, he leaves Dean at the mercy of the most dangerous thing of all.

By the time John exorcises his first demon, Sam is counting the freckles on Dean’s hipbones with the tip of his tongue.


	38. WIP

Dean’s thumb is firm and certain against Sam’s wound, anchoring him. His hand hurts, but at least it’s _real_ : Dean’s face is sure and his expression urgent and unyielding.

“Sam,” Dean says firmly. “Sam, he can’t reach you here. He’s not real. This, me, right here – _we’re real, okay_?”

“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s almost a plea: a plea for Dean to pull him out of the hell Lucifer has created for him. “Dean, I don’t see him anymore, I see different things. I see-“

Dean presses firmly down the wound again, and the pain invades the visions and Sam’s world is just Dean again: Sam trains his eyes on his brother’s face and allows himself to breathe.  

“It doesn’t matter what he makes you see,” Dean murmurs softly, one hand now curled in the nape of Sam’s neck, fingers gently tangling in the soft locks. “Just remember that _this_ ,” Dean leans forward and rests their foreheads together, his mouth ghosting over Sam’s in a barely there promise of a kiss, “This is the only thing that’s real. _The only thing that matters_.”

Sam melts against him.

Behind a glass window, a woman stares miserably at them. Her fingers rest against the glass, thin and yearning. “Our boys,” she says brokenly, a pinch of grief in her small voice.

She doesn’t tear her eyes away from her sons, wrapped around each other in the padded cell, and when she feels John’s arm around her, she collapses against him. “John,” she whimpers, “John, we need to help them.”

John’s heart breaks as he hugs Mary’s fragile body as tightly as he dares. “The doctors call it Folie á deux,” he says, hollow. “Or shared psychosis. Madness of two,” he says, and Mary lets out a small, agonized shriek. “Mary, they’ve been like this since the fire. Since your coma. I’m sorry,” John mumbles into Mary’s hair: once so thick and shining like gold, now matted and dull falling in thin stripes around her pallid face. “They’ve tried to help them, I’ve tried everything but they – Mary, they’re gone. I’m so sorry.”

Mary and John stare under silence at their two boys inside the cell. When John finally convinces Mary to leave, she rests her fingertips at the glass in a small goodbye, and her heart skips a beat when Sam’s pained gaze meets hers for a fleeting second, before he turns away.

Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck.


	39. WIP

”Will it hurt, Dean?” Little Sammy’s eyes are wide and worried, because it’s the first time he’s ever had a blood test. John’s convinced it’s just the flu, but the doctor in Baltimore wants to be through.

Dean’s hand is certain against the back of Sam’s neck. “It’s just a little blood, Sammy,” he tells him, _his big brother smile_ broad and convincing. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

*

Sam’s eyes are black and narrowed and his mouth is a cruel, blood stained line as he stares at Dean above the slaughtered demon in his hands. The throat has been torn open by human teeth, and Dean’s world seems to fall apart.

“It’s just a little blood, Dean,” Sam says around a smirk that’s partly hidden in the shadows. He licks a long stripe along the bloodied neck, and murmurs softly: _“Nothing to be afraid of.”_

Dean throws up on the floor.


	40. WIP

Castiel’s gaze is blue and blank, set on the grey piece of stone.

There’s only the one piece, because he doesn’t believe in burying a single soul shared by two bodies in separate graves. He’s alone, and the skies are low and heavy with rain and thunder above him.

The skies make noise, and Castiel doesn’t know if it’s in celebration or in agony.

He doesn’t know what the earth below the rumbling skies thinks, but he guesses they don’t care much: they have mortgages and families and that cute receptionist at work to think about. They don’t know about two brothers six feet down; _the Lawrence boys_.

They don’t know about the brothers who grew up with blood on their sleeves and knives to their throats. They don’t know what they gave up, or more importantly about what they _wouldn’t_ give up; each other. They don’t know about the Winchester brothers.

Castiel’s fingertips are very light against the unmarked tomb.

Castiel never did learn what humans wanted, but he had a guess. They wanted _peace_ , and people found it in the strangest things - in money, in fame, in recognition.

He thinks of how life had ached for the Winchesters, and how their last breaths had sounded like sighs of relief.

Peace was death, for Sam and Dean.

The thunder makes the earth shudder.

Beneath it, the boys lie side by side.

 


	41. WIP

“I ain’t gonna let him die alone.”

Dean remembers the burning house, the way Sam had felt in his arms when he’d carried him out of their burning childhood. _Get your brother out, Dean._

Dean’s heart falls apart in his chest, because he can’t get Sammy out of this one.

He had carried his baby brother out of the burning house that night, and Dean -

_Dean doesn’t want Sam to be alone when he walks back inside._


	42. WIP

Dean’s eyes are red-rimmed, but Sam refuses to believe he’s been crying – not _Dean_ , not big and unbreakable Dean, whose smile can take on the entire world.

“It’s true?” Dean rasps in a voice so pained that Sam thinks it must claw marks against the motel wallpaper, _into his spine_. “You’re leaving?”

Sam feels like a thief in the night with his backpack thrown over his shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’s stolen when he finally says, inadequately: “Yeah.”

Dean suddenly looms over Sam, pins him against the wall and it’s not sadness that rolls off Dean in waves anymore: it’s fury, cold and bright, as he glares down into Sam’s face. “Gonna go to sunny California and dig gold, Sammy? Huh? Gonna find some salty blonde to fuck on beaches? Become some corporate douchebag?”

Sam blushes, furious and a little embarrassed, and he shoves at Dean, who catches his still-frail-wrists easily. “Maybe,” Sam spits defiantly, glowering into Dean’s narrowing eyes. “Beats this fucking hellhole, anyway.”

Dean looks like he’s been slapped, and Sam feels a surge of satisfaction mingle with sour guilt in the pit of his stomach _. Ruffled feathers_ , at last. “I mean,” Sam adds nastily, for good measure: “What did I ever have here?”

Dean’s grip around his wrists tightens for a second before he releases them completely, as though burnt. His eyes are very green, and very cold, when he finally says: “You had _me_.”

Sam swallows. “Dean.“

Dean’s mouth twists bitterly. “I’m sorry that wasn’t enough.”


	43. WIP

“There’s something about you, Sammy. Where are those puppy eyes that used to make me weak?”

A small smirk tugs for a moment at the corners of Sam’s mouth. “Got left in the pit.”

Dean sways towards him, one glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes are green, for the moment at least, and hooded as he looks up at Sam’s impassive face. “With your soul?”

Sam reaches for Dean, fists his shirt and pulls him towards him. “So they say,” Sam whispers against Dean’s temple. “But I can still make you weak, brother.”

When Dean smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes – Sam doesn’t particularly care, because Dean is warm and solid against him. “I don’t break as easily anymore,” Dean tells him in a growl.

Sam kisses him then, shoves him up against the wall as he snarls against Dean’s mouth: “Good.”

Dean’s glass falls from his hand as his fingers tangles in Sam’s hair, the room smells of whiskey, and Dean’s black stare doesn’t mean anything to Sam.


	44. WIP

You had your first drop of demon blood when your innocent big brother still asked for PB&J’s without the crust, and you know - even if he doesn’t - that you are fundamentally different from him.

Dean’s squeaky clean beneath that cocky grin and smudges of motor oil, he’s like an unmarred drift of snow in the middle of New York city; a calm oasis amid chaos.

You look at Dean now, and you know you should be hurting, too, seeing him lying there: bruised and beaten, covered in broken glass with his snarling mouth full of his own blood.

You can still taste demon blood in yours, and you’re _not hurting_.

Your chest flares with _something_. It might be contempt, or fury – Dean is still so fucking _pure_ ; pure in his rage and intentions – and you don’t know if you hate him or love him anymore, that line went blurry years ago.

Dean tells you, with all he’s got: “If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”

Dean tells you, _don’t mar my snow with that bloody mouth of yours_.

When you walk out, you do it for him.


	45. WIP

”Dean,” Sam begs quietly into the motel room. “Please. We gotta talk.”

“You know,” Dean says coldly, “We really don’t.”

Dean’s neck looks naked and pale without the amulet, and Sam swallows. “I don’t know what that was, back there.”

Dean’s mouth curls into a sneer and his eyes narrow. He’s looking for a way to hurt Sam: it’s clear, and Sam prepares himself for the blow.

“If your idea of heaven is being _where the fuck ever_ as long as you’re not with me,” Dean finally says, his voice all ice, “Then by all means, Sammy: _Get out_. Leave. I don’t give a damn anymore.”

Dean’s shoulders are drawn up; tense with anger and poorly masked hurt, and Sam wants to _cry_ because he doesn’t know how to explain that his entire world is Dean, always has been; doesn’t know how to tell Dean that heaven and hell can go _fuck themselves_ , because all Sam has ever needed is Dean.

All Sam manages, however, is an inadequate and childish: “You don’t mean that.”

Dean lets out a humorless laughter. “I don’t?”

When Dean walks out, head high and elbows sharp, Sam feels it: The amulet wasn’t the only thing Dean left in that trashcan a few states back.


	46. WIP

Dean’s fingers are warm and painful around Sam’s throat where he pins him to the wall. “Go ahead, say it,” Dean taunts. “Tell me you’re leaving.”

Sam’s fingers dig into Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s snarl goes blurry behind tears that Sam stubbornly blinks away. He croaks out: “I have to.”

 _I have to, because I can’t give you what you’re asking of me, not anymore_.

Sam doesn’t say it out loud, but he might as well have because it’s written all over his reluctant face; written into every resistant strain of his muscles, in the tilt of his head.

Dean’s mouth tastes of stolen cigarettes, of asphalt and of blood. Sam shoves at him, spits out the kiss offered him. He feels so damn _tired_. Tired of this game, this tiptoeing around Dean, this nauseating pretense of wanting something he doesn’t want, tired of being a fucking _freak_.

“Fuck it,” Dean growls against Sam’s cheek as his grip around Sam’s throat grows terrifyingly forceful. “Leave. See if I care. You’ll just come back running.”

Sam gasps wordlessly for air when Dean lets go of his throat and shoves him away, his eyes cold and glaring, the line of his mouth taut and menacing.

He looks like John.

“No,” Sam whispers. “I won’t.”


	47. WIP

Dean needs to kill because if he doesn’t, he throws up like a sick cat.

The mark wants what the mark wants, and Sam doesn’t like the smell of vomit.

He doesn’t mind the tangy, ripe smell of blood clinging to their dungeon however, and he _really_ doesn’t mind the way Dean’s strong arms tremble, adrenaline fueled, above the wheezing, dying human beneath him.

Dean’s eyes lock with Sam’s and for one brief moment, blackness flickers across that green-eyed stare.

Sam looks at Dean’s mark. He wants to trace his tongue over it, but that’s for later.

Now, Dean needs to kill.

And Sam, well -

Sam likes to _watch_.


	48. WIP

Dean tells Sam that he’s sorry, and he wants to cry because it’s so pathetically and unfathomably _lacking_. You say you’re sorry if you spilled someone’s coffee. You’re sorry you can’t make it to a wedding.

Dean doesn’t know what word to use, now: because he dragged his little brother away from the life he’d created for himself; dragged Sam right back into the pitch black darkness he’d managed to find his way out of.

And now, he was going to hell. Sam was gonna trickle down into that bottomless pit of fire and anguish, all cloaked up in _Satan_ , and it was _all Dean’s fault_.  

Sam’s hair falls into his face as he stares to the ground. “Don’t,” he mumbles. “Dean, don’t apologize. Not to me.”

Dean moves towards Sam; powerlessly – like Sam’s the sun and Dean’s the moon, and he swallows. “You don’t have to,” he tells Sam weakly. “There’s – we’ll find another way. We always do.”

Sam lifts his head to gaze at Dean, his eyes are unbearably soft, still terrifyingly resolute when he says: “No, we don’t. What about dad, Dean? Or when you were torn apart by hellhounds and dragged to hell? What about the demon blood, and the angels, and all the other shit that we never beat? We don’t always find another way, Dean. We just - we ride it out. And we’re out of options.”

Dean feels cold, because the hopelessness in Sam’s face is new, and it makes Dean want to kill something. He reaches for Sam’s wrist; grips it tightly. “I’ll come for you,” he promises through gritted teeth. “I will, Sammy.”

Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean leans into him. Sam feels certain and warm against him.

“You have to promise me not to.” Sam speaks so, so softly, as if Dean was a sleepy child he doesn’t want to startle. “There’s too much on the line, we can’t risk it.”

Dean’s grip of Sam’s wrist grows tighter. “You can’t ask that of me.”

Sam lifts Dean’s chin gently, his fingertips a little cold against Dean’s face. “You carried me out of the fire and showed me everything about life that I love, Dean. But I think that now – now, I have to take the plunge back in.”

They stand under silence, leaning into each other.

They don’t know it; but when Dean finally lets go of Sam’s wrist, the temperature drops in Detroit.


	49. WIP

Sam’s chest aches, because he’s done what he _swore_ he would never do.

He’s hurt Dean, who will do anything to hide it.

Dean’s face is locked and bolted like a fortress; his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are dark, narrowing as they search for ways to hurt Sam. His mouth curls cruelly when he says: “Think I care if you leave? I don’t give a shit if you want to become some beer-chugging frat boy, that just means I don’t have to babysit your sorry ass anymore. I’ll finally be _free_.”

Sam wants to reach out, wants to hold Dean and make him understand that they both hate this; that Dean isn’t alone. He wants to, but Sam doesn’t know how, not when Dean looks like _that_.

“Dean please,” Sam begs quietly. “It’s just. This life. I can’t Dean, _I can’t anymore_. Why don’t you just come with me?”

That’s when John calls from the kitchen. Another case, a salt and burn outside of Wichita; _Dean, get your stuff_.

Dean shrugs into his leather jacket as he stares down into Sam’s face. “Because,” he tells Sam flatly, “I won’t leave family behind.”


	50. WIP

Sam’s throat is sore from last night, but he doesn’t care. In fact, he _revels_ in the ache in his jaw; the burning sensation in his throat because _this_ – this is where he belongs. He’s crawling between Dean’s meaty thighs on dirty, cum-stained sheets with his big brother’s cock buried deep in his throat.

Dean sounds pissed off and wild with want when he glares down at Sam and hisses quietly: “Such a fucking slut, Sammy, aren’t you? Couldn’t even wait for dad to leave before you needed my cock in your mouth, ain’t that right? Gonna get us caught soon, you hear me?”

Little Sammy releases Dean’s heavy cock, slowly, letting it leave a trail of spit and precum down his chin as he watches his big brother, gaze dark beneath lowered eyelids. His voice is obscenely hoarse when he says: “Bet he’d be jealous.”

Dean growls, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair and forces his weeping dick into his little brother’s mouth again, thrusting deeply. “That’s what this is about, huh? Putting on a show for daddy? Don’t you get enough attention from your big brother, is that it?”

Sam swallows the length, buries his nose in Dean’s pubes, his soft fingers playing with Dean’s balls, feeling a surge of power and satisfaction when Dean comes hotly and without warning down his throat, accompanied by the sound of Dean’s strangled moan.

The taste is bitter and familiar, and Sam thinks he could live off this.

Their eyes lock for a brief moment, and the question Dean had posed earlier hangs between them, demanding an answer. Sam licks his lips, prepares to reply, but is interrupted by a sharp knock on their door.

“Everything ok in there, boys?”

“We’ll be right out,” Dean replies loudly, too loud, his cheeks red.

Sam says, in a voice that sounds like sex over broken glass: “I think I might’ve caught a cold, daddy. Maybe Dean should stay at home with me today?”

John takes a moment to answer, then he speaks, his voice muffled behind the thin door. “Whatever you need, Sam. I’m taking off now, I’ll be back in the afternoon. Take care of Sammy, Dean. There’s aspirin in the kitchen if you need it.”

Sam licks a long, wet stripe along Dean’s sensitive cock, and Dean hisses. “You heard him,” Sam whispers. “Whatever I need.”

Dean watches him, the look in his eyes suggests that he is partly astounded, partly scared of what he finds in Sam’s face. “He’s gonna find out if you keep this up,” Dean finally rasps, a desperate note of helplessness in his voice. “Don’t you even care?”

“It’ll let him know that you’re mine,” Sam mumbles, eyes almost black beneath his long bangs.

Dean stares at him under a stony silence. “You’re fucked up.”

Sam stretches like a cat. “Yeah,” he agrees lazily, in that fucked-out voice. “But I’m not blind.”


	51. WIP

little sammy always lies to john about being afraid of the dark so he’ll get to sleep in dean’s room

“afraid of the dark, huh?” dean whispers into sammy’s ear, tying a blindfold over his eyes, his leaking cock rubbing against sammy’s back. “you know where liars go, little brother?” 

little sammy begs in a shaky breath into the darkness: “show me?” 


	52. WIP

_4 th July, 1996, first kiss, and maybe some. Weecest/wincest, drabble_

Sam admires the fireworks above them, his smile so wide, so awed, so _genuine_ that Dean simply can’t take his eyes off him. They remain this way for several minutes; Sam watching the fireworks and Dean watching Sam, before Sam notices through the corner of his eye. Around a soft laugh, Sam tells him: “Watch the fireworks, Dean!”

“I am,” Dean murmurs, because he sees them all, reflecting in Sam’s eyes. “You having fun, Sammy?”

Sam turns to him, eyes gleaming. “Yeah,” he says.

And, then. Dean’s world changes the next moment, because.

Sam’s mouth feels like a question against Dean’s when he tiptoes up and kisses him, wide eyed; his fingers circling around Dean’s wrist softly.

They stand there, beneath the sparkling sky, and it’s the best moment of Dean’s entire life; his body and soul is _thrumming_ with need and want and euphoria.

He _knows_ he should push Sam away. Knows that Sam’s dry, inexperienced lips shouldn’t feel this perfect against his, knows that it’s wrong to let his tongue gently glide over his little brother’s bottom lip; into his sweet little mouth. Shouldn’t let Sammy’s soft moan go straight to his cock.

“Dean, _please_.”

Sam’s tone. Dean’s heard it before, from girls, and he knows what it means. Sam’s asking him _to fuck him_ , and Dean -

Dean knows he shouldn’t, but.

But he’s wanted this for too long, and he simply isn’t strong enough to walk away, not now, with Sam’s insistent, desperate hands tugging at his clothes. Instead he wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and lifts him up, puts him on the hood of the impala and stands between Sam’s spread legs, cupping his brother’s face in his hands and says, his voice low: “You know what you asking for, Sammy?”

Sam’s answer is wordless, he simply lifts Dean’s fingers to his mouth, and _godfuckinghelphim_ , sucks Dean’s index finger into his mouth, eyes hooded and dark as he lets his tongue swirl wetly along the it, making obscene little noises.

Dean _growls_ then, and drags Sam into the backseat of the impala.

Dean is still awake when Sam falls asleep hours later, sweaty and smiling, in his arms.

Everything had started with a fire, and Dean suspects that it might end with one, too.

But, Dean thinks, as he nuzzles his nose in Sam’s hair and breathes in the scorched scent of fireworks and burning fields – if saving the world means that Dean must give _this_ up, then – well.

Then he’ll let the world burn.


	53. WIP

“Dean,” Sam murmurs into the darkness of their motel room. The bed is big enough for them to share but small enough to allow Dean to feel Sam’s warm breath on his neck. “Talk to me like _that_ , please? Like you do sometimes.”

Dean’s swallows as his eyes flicker over to the dark outline in the room: the couch where John is passed out from fatigue and whiskey. The guilt is crippling, but his stomach knots in anticipation and he hates himself for loving how dirty he feels for what he’s been doing to his sweet, innocent Sammy.

Dean’s never touched him. Not once had he given in, no matter how badly Sam begged – never touched, but, God.

The things he’s _said_. The filth Dean has whispered into the dark motel rooms; the dirty confessions Dean has fed Sammy’s eager young mind, so hungry for more – Dean feels like a monster, sometimes: When he’s having cereal in the morning with John looking pinched and tired, and the sunshine plays across the planes of Sammy’s young innocent little face, those are the moments when Dean hates himself for what he wants.

For what his messed-up mind is doing to Sammy’s innocence.

“Deean,” Sammy begs, and it’s perfectly needy and impatient and it makes Dean’s cock swell. “Wanna hear you talk, please?”

Dean shifts to the side and takes in Sam’s profile in the darkness; the soft dark curl of his eyelashes, his small little nose.

“Yeah?” he whispers, licking his lips. “Wanna hear what I think about doing to you, little brother?”

Sam nods. “Mmhm. Please Dean, it makes me feel good.”

Dean draws in a shaky breath. He should swallow the filth he’s about to spur, swallow it down to the bile in his stomach where it belongs, but he’s not strong enough. Not when Sammy begs like this.

“I wanna shove my fingers in your mouth,” Dean says quietly. “I wanna hear the noises you’d make, wanna feel the back of your tongue against my fingertips. I wanna hear you moan around them, Sammy. I’d work my fingers down your throat even. You know why Sammy?”

“Nuh uh,” Sam whines quietly. “Tell me.”

“Cause I want your sweet little throat prepared for my dick. I wanna put my cock in your mouth, baby boy.”

Sam gasps a little, and Dean’s heart pounds in his chest and he wraps his hand around his aching cock.

“Dean, that’s so dirty,” Sammy whines next to him, his little voice doing things to Dean’s soul.

“Would you let me?” Dean asks, “Would you even know what to do, Sammy? If I put my big dick in your little mouth?”

Sammy makes a keening little noise. “I-I would lick at it, suck at it? Is that what you’d want?”

Dean swears and bites his lip so hard it might draw blood. Those words, from Sammy’s pretty little mouth has him shaking, his hand flying over his cock.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly, “Yeah baby, that’s what I want. I wanna fuck your throat until your eyes tear up. You’d look so fucking beautiful, you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. You’d look so perfect.”

“Deaan,” Sam mewls next to him, “M’feeling funny, I’m-“

“Are you feeling hot baby boy?” Dean asks breathlessly, “Is your little dick hard?”

“Yess,” Sam whispered, “Dean, please… More.”

“Oh I’ll give you more,” Dean continues, pearls of sweat breaking through his temple. “I wanna fuck you, Sam. I want to open you up with my fingers. I wanna work your sweet little pucker open, and fuck.. Sammy, you’d love it. I’d find that little bundle inside of you that would make you _cry_ cause it feels so good, and I would rub it until you begged me for more.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whines, and Dean can hear his blunt little nails desperate against the crisp motel sheets. His little brother sounds broken and gone, and Dean should care, but he doesn’t.

“My cock would be slick from your wet mouth Sammy,” Dean whispers, and he can smell Sam’s arousal and he’s _gone_. “And I’d slide into you, little brother. I’d make you take it, and you would love it so much I’d have to put my hand over your mouth cause the sounds you’d make would be so fucking filthy and needy and I’d pound you while telling you to shut the fuck up. Sammy, it would be so fucking perfect, and you’d be ruined for anyone else, ever. You’d be _mine_ in all the ways a person can belong, Sammy.”

Sam makes a beautiful little noise and Dean knows that’s how he makes his little brother come, untouched, beneath the covers.  

“Dean,” Sam mumbles, and it’s fucked out and innocent and _beautiful_. Dean wants to cry, and he wants to come, and Sam’s small hand is wet with sweat as he reaches trembling for Dean’s neck.

“No touching,” Dean chokes out, and it’s gentle and forced. He climbs out of bed, the bed that smells of sweet little brother come and shame.

Dean locks himself up in the bathroom and jerks himself off in the darkness. He doesn’t want to look himself in the mirror. He comes thinking about Sammy’s beautiful whines, and he tells himself:

_I’ve never touched him._


	54. WIP

Sam is four years old, and he’s running a fever. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, and when John looks in the rearview mirror there’s an amber glare staring furiously back at him beneath brown locks.

Dean’s little blonde brows furrow as he looks at his little brother. “Dad,” Dean says worriedly, “Sam’s neck is all red. What’s wrong with him?”

John doesn’t know what’s wrong with Sam, and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve the way Sam won’t stop glaring at him, unblinkingly, for the rest of the drive.

When they reach the motel for the night, John picks Sam up and puts him on the counter of the small pantry. “Sammy,” John asks softly, cupping the boy’s face with one hand. He’s burning up. “Sammy, how are you feeling?”

Sam pulls at the neckline of his T-shirt, and John’s heart goes cold: Sam has long scratches along the line of his neck, angry red crescent marks of fingernails against the pink, blossoming skin. “Take it off,” Sam hisses, and John must take a hold of Sam’s little wrists to keep him from keep clawing at his own neck.

“Take what off?” John asks, “Sammy, you have to breathe,” John tries to calm his child, whose breathing is approaching hyperventilation.

“Take it off,” Sam demands again, and that’s when John understands what he means, because he sees it beneath Sam’s T-shirt: the thin chain, the small silver cross.

John had gotten them for his boys a few towns back: one for Dean, one for Sam. _Better safe than sorry_ , and he’d made a good bargain, because the woman who sold them let him have both for the price of one.

John’s hands tremble as he unlocks the small chain and tells himself that he must’ve been ripped off – they clearly weren’t in silver. Maybe Sam had a nickel allergy. John tries not to think about how Sam’s face had been a picture of abhorrence as he pushed John away as soon as the cross came off.

When Sam crawls into Dean’s bed, he falls asleep instantly.

John spends the night tossing and turning before he finally falls asleep at three am. He dreams of yellow eyes hovering above a strangely silent child: a child breathing in the scent of its mother set on fire.

*

Sam is ten years old when an old friend of John’s is killed during a hunt. His family refuses to give him a hunter’s funeral, and John puts Sam and Dean in suits and drives down to San Antonio, to the small church in the outskirts of town where the funeral will be held.

Sam had protested. He’d wanted to stay at Bobby’s. John had told him that when friends passed, _you paid your damn respects_ , and that had been it.

Sam’s face is ashen when they roll up to the church.

John almost apologizes to the widow for the way Sam squirms in the bench throughout the ceremony, and he hopes she assumes Sam’s upset about the grief ridden atmosphere, even if an unwanted voice somewhere in the back of his mind whispers that he isn’t.

When John puts one hand on the back of Sam’s neck as they walk back to the Impala, his boy is soaked in sweat. John’s gut clenches as Sam throws a dirty glare at the church over his shoulder before climbing into the car.

Sam curls up instantly, falls asleep with his head in Dean’s lap, and John fights the urge to tell Dean to stop threading his fingers through Sam’s hair; afraid Dean might catch whatever it is that rots inside Sam’s soul.

*

Sam is thirteen when John realizes his youngest son had been baptized a second time, that night in the nursery. In hellfire and demon blood that seeped down his two-year-old throat, purging whatever light Sam had ever possessed.

Sam’s not even trying to hide his contempt for anything sanctified anymore. He scowls as John shoves bottles of holy water into his arms and throws them carelessly into the trunk. They clink against each other, and the sound makes John’s skin crawl.

Sam is too old to sleep with his head in his seventeen-year-old big brother’s lap, but Dean looks at Sam like he’s the brightest thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and during his darkest nights John thinks that the only reason he hasn’t tried to rid this world of Sam’s darkness is because of the way Dean looks at him.

Dean gazes down at the boy he’s cradled in his arms since before John had had to wash hell soot from Dean’s hands after carrying Sam out from their childhood and into a dark, cold night that John never had been able to lead them out of.

God may have raised the sun, but by the way Dean looks at Sam with the softest, kindest eyes, the devil hung the moon.

John doesn’t know if he can slit the throat of the only thing in the pitch-black universe that makes his sunshine boy smile.

*

John worries about Dean, too. He stumbles in late smelling of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke; sneaks into the bathroom to shower and thinks John won’t notice.

It feels good. John enjoys having something so normal to worry about; he pretends they’re a normal family. He clings to the normalcy of having a son who’s human enough to drown his adolescence in something so commonplace, and he finds peace in the way Dean’s jacket smells of sweet girl perfume and roadhouse beer.

Sam does not.

Sam’s eyes narrow into furious slits the nights Dean stumbles back inside their motel room with eyes lit up, he looks like a boy who’s just had his dick buried in someone’s throat for the first time, and Sam’s silence hangs so poisonous and spiteful in the air that John’s chest grow tight.

In only happens a handful of times, and then Dean stops coming in late with pink lipstick on his neck.

John worries about that, too.

*

Dean is twenty and he’s sprawled across the stained, awful couch inside their room in Missouri. The neckline of his t-shirt has ridden down a bit, and John stares at the sun-kissed skin of his naked throat, a chill running down his spine when he notices just how _bare_ it is.  

“Dean,” John hears himself ask, tonelessly. “Dean, where’s your cross?”

Sam saunters up behind the couch, his lazy smile awfully cold in the warm afternoon glow. His long dark bangs fall into his eyes as he looks down at his big brother and reaches down to trail his long fingers against Dean’s naked neck.

Dean blushes faintly, and the intimacy of the moment is so stark and daunting that John feels the ground shift beneath him.  

“I’ll find him something else to wear,” Sam says gently into the room.


	55. WIP

First time!Wincest (S4)

Dean had always known it would come to a head at some point, this intricate, messed up sort of dance him and Sam had danced for years – the touches that lingered too long, the looks between them that made promises that was anything but innocent. The secrets they murmured into the darkness of whiskey nights as they lay in separate beds, secrets they never spoke of in daylight.

Dean just wasn’t expecting it to reach its breaking point in the middle of a starless Alabama night by the side of a highway, his clothes still damp with blood from the hunt they’d just finished.

They had fought, of course they had, because they always fucking _fought_. They could barely look at each other these days without snarling at each other, pushing or shoving or spitting some rude remark at each other and maybe it had always been a part of their game, the only outlet they would allow themselves.

Sam had snapped at him, Dean had pulled over, they had gotten out of the impala and Sam had sneered an accusation at him – Dean had barely registered it, he’d just swung his fist at Sam, going for the throat, but Sam had caught his arm and twisted it to his back, shoving Dean face first against the side of the car.

And this is where Dean finds himself now, face pressed against the cool surface of the car, struggling beneath the length of Sam’s strong body.

“Fuck you Dean,” Sam grits out, his long fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrist, his breath hot against Dean’s neck. “ _Fuck you._ ”

“Get the hell off me,” Dean wheezes, his heart pounding furiously in his chest because the entire length of Sam’s body is pressing him against the impala.

“I don’t want to,” Sam says in a voice that would be derisive if it wasn’t for the slight tremble that gives something away, something Dean doesn’t quite want to let himself believe really is there – but then Sam continues: “And you don’t really want me to, right?”

Dean’s slight whimper seems to be enough of a confirmation for Sam, who spins him around, pinning Dean’s back to the car as he takes a bold step forwards, one leg pressing between Dean’s thighs and Dean stares up into Sam’s determined face. He wants to say something, but he finds that he is uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“What are we doing?” Dean finally breathes into the air between them, his fingers clutching the fabric of Sam’s sleeve.

Sam’s eyes gleam in the little light left in the twilight skies above them as he tilts his head down, his lips hovering over Dean’s. “Will you,” Sam mumbles, suddenly coy, his thumb tracing Dean’s bottom lip, “Will you let me?”

Dean swallows, head light and body hot, his entire being throbbing with arousal as he feels the years of pent up desire pierce like electricity, like a lightning bolt, through the small space between them. He would never, ever, deny Sam anything, and the answer comes so easily: “ _Yes_.”

Sam smells like blood soaked iron and cheap motel soap when his warm mouth covers Dean’s, and Dean can’t stifle the undignified noises he makes as Sam’s tongue drags filthily along the roof of his mouth.

Dean tangles his fingers in the curls of Sam’s neck, tugging his brother closer. “Yes,” he whispers again when they break apart for air, “Yes, I’m letting you. Anything. Anything you want.”

Sam honest to God _growls_ then, tugs Dean’s zipper open and pushes his jeans down, swearing as he can’t get them over his shoes. Dean kicks his shoes off and steps out of his jeans, his hard cock staining his boxers with pre come. Sam’s eyes roam over him, white teeth gleaming in an almost feral smirk as he trails his fingertips along the inside of Dean’s thigh, teeth grazing Dean’s earlobe.

“Anything?” Sam whispers, as he cups Dean’s leaking cock.

Dean shoves his hips forwards, shamelessly. “Sam,” is all he manages as his eyes draws open, gazing up into the face he’s loved since the first time he saw it.

Sam takes a small tube out from his pocket. Lube.

Dean feels his blood pound from jealousy and arousal. “Get around much, little brother?” he says, trying to sound cool with Sam’s thumb teasing the head of his cock.

Sam kisses him then, hard, before he hisses against his cheek: “I only use it when I jack off, thinking of you.”

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, the thought of Sam getting his own cock hard and messy over the thought of Dean painting all sorts of lovely images.

Sam picks him up then, and Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, marveling at how perfectly they fit together, how easily Sam keeps him up. Dean is held there, like a ragdoll, by his little brother whose eyes are almost black beneath lowered eyelids as he stares down into Dean’s face.

A smirks spreads across Sam’s face again as Dean feels Sam’s long fingers, slippery and cold, circle his hole. Dean thinks he might actually come, embarrassingly, just from this. From the look on Sam’s face, with his brother’s fingers teasing the rim of his hole.

“Are you hot and sweet in here, big brother?” Sam says, in a tone Dean has never before heard him use but one that he is sure he won’t ever get enough of. “Gonna let me slide my big cock in here?”

Dean claws at Sam’s shoulders now, whining as he pushes himself against the fingers he’s desperate to have inside of him. “Do you want a fucking written invitation, Sammy? Fuck just, I need you inside me, _please_ _fuck me_.”

Sam exhales shakily as he slides one finger into Dean, deeply, possessively, like he knows what he’s looking for. And, with a slight wriggle, he finds it – Dean throws his head back as Sam, _the little shit_ , finds his prostate with a single finger. Dean moans, obscenely, he can tell, but he can’t help it because Sam’s one finger is making him see stars and his little brother’s teeth grazes his earlobe.

“Sam,” Dean almost sobs, “You gonna have to – ah!- please, I’m gonna-“

Sam’s voice holds no mockery, only awe and desire when he asks in a hot whisper against Dean’s lips: “You gonna come from just this?”

Dean mewls, fingers tangling in Sam’s hair. “Don’t wanna. Want to come on your cock, Sam.”

Sam nods, and Dean let’s out an ah! as he feels Sam’s finger slip out of him and getting replaced by the dripping head of Sam’s cock, teasing the rim, and Dean is _shaking_.

The night is impossibly dark and still around them when Sam finally enters Dean, their mingled moans the only thing disrupting the compact silence. Sam starts out deliberately, setting a slow but hard pace, his hips snapping against Dean’s.

Dean clings to him, basking in the sensation of finally, _finally_ , having his brother inside of him. “Fuck Sammy,” he gasps, as Sam angles his hips and hits _that fucking spot_ that makes Dean see stars. “Yes, yes, yes, please…”

Sam swears as he hears Dean’s desperate whines. He’s not holding back anymore, fucking Dean ruthlessly, sweat dripping down his forehead, his big hands grasping Dean’s thighs to keep him steady.

“Want me to fill you up?” he asks, his voice strained and almost shaking.

Dean can only nod, tears trickling down his face as he comes silently, helplessly, making a mess of Sam’s shirt.

“Dean,” Sam rasps out, cupping Dean’s face as he kisses him, tasting his tears as he comes.

Sam stays inside Dean, and Dean clings to him, neither letting go. Their breathing slowly calms, and the air around them seems to settle as their sweaty faces cools in the night breeze.

When they eventually find a motel for the night, neither corrects the clerk when she assumes they want a king sized bed.  


	56. WIP

Every time, Dean tells himself that this is it. This is the last time. Every time he lets Sammy straddle him, sink down onto his cock with a moan that’d make any whore blush, he promises that he’ll put an end to this.

He never meant for it to go this far.

Dean never meant for those chaste kisses he allowed Sam to clumsily place on his mouth to evolve into heavy makeout sessions. Never meant to let Sam rub his hard cock against his thigh, never planned to find the sound Sam made when he came so incredibly hot.

He never intended to let Sammy get to his knees before him, lapping obscenely and hungrily at his cock, making Dean come all over his face with a growl.

Dean never meant to fuck Sam hard and fast bent over the kitchen table as soon as their father left for a hunt, never meant to grab a fistful of that long hair and grunt against his little brother’s ear how pretty he looked with Dean’s cock buried in his spit-soaked ass as Sammy mewled with pleasure beneath him.

Dean knows he must stop, knows they can’t keep doing this, knows how fucking wrong it is.

Dean knows it, but God help him, _he can’t feel it_.

And Sam’s dark eyes as he rides him hard and fast lets him know that Sam will never let him go, no matter how hard Dean would try to end this.


	57. WIP

Sam’s lips are soft and and kiss-swollen when Dean mumbles against them: “I love you.” 

Sam doesn’t reply, doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. Instead he tugs Dean down again, kissing him deeply and messily; kisses him like he can make up for time they haven’t lost yet. 

But they will.

Dean loves him, but Sam’s acceptance letter is folded beneath his pillow.

Sam kisses Dean in silence, because the words he knows he has to speak are too final, too much of a betrayal.

Dean falls asleep with his head on Sam’s chest. 

Sam tells himself: 

_I’ll tell him tomorrow._


	58. WIP

Dean doesn’t know that when John explained to four year old Sam what it meant to be in love with someone, little Sammy had smiled like the sun and declared: ”I’m in love with Dean!” John’s brows had furrowed, and he’d told Sam that that wasn’t possible. You can love your brother, but that’s not the same as being _in love_. John had said, as he’d tried to ignore the sensation of dismay that had settled in his gut: “When you grow up, you’ll understand.”

Dean doesn’t know, but when Sam was ten years old he’d made a Valentine’s day card for Dean. It was heart shaped and bright red; Sam had even kissed it when no one had seen, a dry lipped kiss right on Dean’s name. He knew he wasn’t allowed to, that it was wrong, but he wished he could kiss Dean right on the mouth, instead.

When John picked him up after school, he’d seen the card. His face had been ashen, lips pressed into a grim line as he’d taken the card from Sam who could only watch, his throat aching, as his dad had ripped it in two and thrown it out through the car window.

“You need to stop it, Sam,” John had told him in a voice that had been forced to sound calm, but Sam could hear fury vibrate through every syllable. “You can’t think of him like that, you hear me? It ain’t right.”

Sam had bowed his head in shame, nodding, trying and failing to blink back the tears.

_It ain’t right._

When they’d arrived back at the motel, Dean had jumped off the couch instantly. “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

Dean’s eyes were soft and imploring, his voice worried. Sam wanted to throw himself in his arms, bury his face in Dean’s neck and tell him everything.

Sam could feel John’s stare at the back of his neck, and he forced out a sulky huff: “Nothing, leave me alone.”

*

Dean doesn’t know that the black eye Sam got when he was fifteen wasn’t from the school jock. He doesn’t know that it was John who’d punched Sam in the eye after Dean had left for work in the morning.

John’s fist had sent Sam reeling from the impact, coming up short against the wall, eyes dark and furious as he stared at John with disbelief. “What the fuck!?”

John’s eyes were almost black, darkened by fear and rage. “You think I don’t see what you’re trying to do? I wasn’t born yesterday, Sam. Walking around like that, in skimpy little shorts that barely covers your ass, making eyes at him over the fucking breakfast table?! You make me _sick_.”

Sam’s chest heaved with fury and pain blossomed behind his eye. “You’re fucking paranoid,” he spat.

John’s laugh was hollow. “No, I’m not. You’re moaning like a little bitch while eating fucking _cereal_ , it’s embarrassing, you think I don’t see through you? Huh? Think I’ll just watch you corrupt him, let you turn him into a freak? I won’t Sam, I won’t let you ruin him, if it’s the last fucking thing I do!”

White, hot fury made Sam swing his fist at John, who easily caught his arm, twisting it. Sam nearly bit himself in the tongue to keep from groaning out in pain.

“What do you want?” John asked into the dusty motel room. “What do you want from me to stay away from him?”

“College,” Sam said without missing a beat, because he’s been thinking about ways out from this hellhole for years. To get away from heartache and heartbreak, from abuse and from the shame of loving the wrong person. Away from Dean, away from John, away from their miserable existence.

John had been quiet, so Sam had repeated: “College. If you pay for it, I’ll leave him. I’ll leave you both.”

John had loosened his grip of Sam’s arm. His voice had been hoarse and sorrowful when he’d said: “I never wanted it to end like this, Sam. But you gave me no choice.”

Sam hadn’t told him that he hadn’t had a choice, never, not in anything. He hadn’t chosen for his nursery to burn, hadn’t chosen this life, hadn’t chosen to fall in love with his brother before he even had known what it meant to love someone. He hadn’t chosen to let Dean become his entire world; the sun around which he was stuck like a powerless moon in an everlasting orbit that seemed impossible to break away from.

He hadn’t chosen any of it.

John promised Sam money for college in exchange for him leaving.

Dean, of course, doesn’t know any of this.

*

Dean doesn’t know that the things that Sam had told him on the night that he left for Stanford were carefully rehearsed. Dean doesn’t know that Sam had planned for weeks what to say; how to phrase himself to keep Dean from following him.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘you’ll come with me’?” Sam had asked that night, sneering into Dean’s shocked and pleading face. “Don’t you get it Dean? I’m leaving to get away from you, you’re _toxic_ and I can’t stand it here anymore!”

Sam had felt everything, not just his heart, but _everything inside him_ break at the sight of Dean’s face in that moment. The raw, sorrowful confusion and desperate disbelief was written all over the face that Sam had loved since before he could talk, and he wanted to die because he _never_ wanted to be the reason Dean looked like that.

“Dad!” Dean had shouted, looking over at John in desperation. “Tell him! He can’t leave!”

Sam’s eyes had locked with John’s, mostly because he couldn’t bear to look at Dean a second longer.

“If you walk out that door,” John had said slowly, “Then don’t you ever come back.”

“Dad,” Dean had protested, reaching out for Sam who’d taken a step back.

“Don’t touch me,” Sam had said dispassionately, sounding so convincing that he thought John ought to be proud. “I’m leaving.”

*

Dean doesn’t know that Sam spends his first year at Stanford spreading his legs for anyone who remotely resembles Dean. _Not that he’d care_ , Sam thinks, as he licks his lips and smirks at the green eyed boy across the bar, one suggestive eyebrow raised in invitation.

Sam hadn’t heard from Dean since that night, and he wonders when it will stop hurting like an open wound.

The green eyed boy comes over, and Sam is guaranteed another night of distraction.

*

John is dead, and Dean doesn’t know why Sam insists on speaking with him now. Sam says it’s important, that he can’t explain, but he needs to tell Dean something.

Dean doesn’t know, but Sam has decided to tell him everything he’s longed to tell him for over twenty years now.

There’s no one to tell Sam that he’s wrong to be in love, no one to tear up his Valentines cards, no one to beat him up and buy him off like a whore to stay away, no one, not anymore, _because John’s_ _dead_.

And Dean is finally about to find out the truth.


	59. WIP

Little Sammy gets spanked by Dean as a punishment, and afterwards he locks himself in the bathroom and comes for the first time in his life. 

A few months later, Dean asks him what he wants for his birthday. Sam blushes hotly, _prettily_ , and Dean asks again. 

Little Sammy whispers, “Will you spank me again? Please?” 

Dean nearly comes there and then because, _fuck_ , he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Sam’s little ass, red and blossoming, or the wonderful sounds he’d made. 

Dean says, shakily: “Anything you want, baby boy.”


	60. WIP

Sam is five, and everyone thinks it’s precious, the way he clings to his big brother. Dean’s thin nine-year-old arms are wrapped around Sam’s little waist, Sam’s head tucked beneath Dean’s chin. There’s a malicious gleam in Sam’s eyes, and John’s stomach is already in knots.

Sam is thirteen, and John wishes he’d left him to burn in the nursery. Sam is all long limbs and coy looks from underneath dark bangs already, and Dean – _god help him_ , John thinks, as his fingers curl around the cheap bottle of whiskey, Dean is seventeen and Sam’s eyes are making promises that no seventeen-year-old could resist.

Sam is fifteen, and he’s making filthy noises as he rides Dean’s cock for the first time. John is lying on the motel room’s couch behind the useless, thin door. Had he not been so numb from all the whiskey, he’d have cried. When he finally drifts off, he dreams of Mary and sunshine-bright-Dean; about the life they could have had.

Then he has a nightmare, and when he wakes up, Sam’s leaning in the door opening. “Did you sleep well, dad?” the kid asks in a smug murmur, and John feels like he’s falling.  

Sam is eighteen, and that’s when John has him by the throat. “Leave us. _Leave him_ , you understand me? You leave or _I’ll kill you_.” Sam pushes him off, eyes gleaming furiously as he packs under a stony silence. “I’ll have him,” is the last thing Sam says, before he disappears into the dark Missouri night. “He’ll be mine.” Sam’s promise stretches in the air around John like an aching, lingering, terror.

Sam is twenty-two, and he walks into John’s life again with a staggering fury, but John barely notices. He only sees Dean, _bright and wonderful Dean_ , once again drowning in Sam’s darkness. John feels sick, wondering what they’ve been up to during the months and months they’ve spent together, alone on the road.

_In motel rooms._

Sam smirks at John where he lies in the hospital bed. “I told you,” he says softly.

John gives his life for Dean, but not before whispering his dying wish to his sunshine son.

_If you can’t save him, kill him._

The look in Dean’s eyes extinguishes John’s last hope.

Dean is Sam’s, completely, wholly, and mercilessly.


	61. WIP

Sam is twelve when arousal sizzles through his bones for the first time. To his horror, it’s the sight of his big brother, the sight of _Dean_ , that does it.

It’s like being struck by lightning.  

Dean stumbles in through the motel room door after a hunt. His heaving chest is filthy and sweaty beneath his torn shirt. Dean swears loudly as he pushes past Sam, brushing against him. Sam almost gasps; Dean smells of cologne mixed with bloody iron, and Sam suddenly wants to be buried in the scent. Buried _beneath_ the scent, he wants Dean’s scowling face inches from his own, wants his brother’s bloody hands to leave fingerprints all over his body.

Dean disappears into the bathroom, leaving Sam alone in the room, weak with shame and the sudden and overpowering need for something he doesn’t know how to ask for.


	62. WIP

Sammy hushes Dean’s protests as he sinks down onto his big brother’s cock. Dean’s eyes are closed, tears prickling behind his eyelids. He never wanted this, but it happened, God help him but it happened on a drunken night when Dean was whiskey weak and unable to stop his baby brother from getting on his knees and sucking him deep into his throat, then crawling on top of him and riding Dean while his nails left red half-moon marks on Dean’s arms. Dean had watched as his Sammy, thirteen year old Sammy, came messily all over himself as he bounced on his big brother’s cock.

Sam’s eyes were almost black then.

They are now, too, as he rides Dean, slowly and obscenely. “Daddy,” little Sammy moans, pinching at his own nipples. Dean tries to push him off. He tells him to stop, he feels bile rising in his throat. “Sam,” he begs, voice breaking and small in the dark and dusty motel room. “Don’t do this, please.”

The expression on Sam’s young face is frighteningly cold and merciless. “Gonna make you come this time, daddy.”

When Dean inevitably does, he wants to die. And Sam’s eyes still scare him.


	63. WIP

Sam kissed Dean for the first time when he was fourteen.

 _It’s ‘bout time you tried some beer, right kiddo?_ Dean had grinned as he’d put a sixpack on the table and flopped down onto the motel room’s couch. Two beers in, and Sam’s liquid courage had him crawling onto Dean’s lap, nuzzling against Dean’s warm throat, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his big brother. “Dean,” he’d mumbled, sheer _want_ bleeding into his voice, and Dean had gone stiff with resistance beneath him.

“Sam get off me, you lightweight,” Dean tried to joke, but Sam had leant forwards, pressed his lips to Dean’s soft mouth clumsily as his fingers curled around his brother’s nape.

Dean had instantly pushed him away, so roughly that Sam tumbled off the couch and onto the table, knocking over their bottles. “What the hell are you doing, Sammy?” Dean had asked, face ashen, fingers touching his lips as though he couldn’t believe what had just touched them.  

Sam’s face had been hot with shame as he’d stared at Dean, humiliated tears blurring the edges of his vision. “I just – I wanted… Dean, please?” he stammered, terrified, because Dean was looking at him like he’d never seen him before; like Sam was a stranger.

“Sammy, no,” Dean said, voice low. “I can’t be _that_ for you. You understand that, right? It’s not… It’s not right.”

Sam nodded jerkily as the tears finally made their way down his cheeks.

He knew. He knew he was a freak, only someone truly messed up in their head would allow themselves to fall in love with their own big brother.

*

The second time Sam kissed Dean, he was stone cold sober, and pissed off.

The Montana night was stuffy and warm around them where they stood at the parking lot in front of their current shit motel called home, Dean leaning against the Impala, hands shoved into his pockets. The air around them smelled of flowers and sunburned asphalt, and it made Sam sick to his stomach.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sammy,” Dean said, “Dad’s in charge. If he thinks you’re too young to come with on this hunt, that’s final. I can’t change his mind.”

Sam felt the frustration in his damn teeth as he grit out, “You sure didn’t have any problem convincing him to let _you_ come with when you were sixteen. Just fucking admit that it’s you who don’t want me to come with, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, the light from the ugly florescent signs draining his handsome face from all its color. “I shouldn’t have been allowed to come with when I was your age, Sam. I was a kid, for fuck’s sake, and so are you. You need to be protected from all this for as long as possible, can’t you see that? I just want what’s best for you, damn it!”

Sam let out a snorting sort of laughter as he took a step towards Dean. “That’s what you tell yourself, Dean? That you’re protecting me? Cut the bullshit. You know as well as I do that you don’t want me to come with because you don’t want to share the backseat with your freak of a little brother.”

Dean glanced worriedly at the motel door, then shoved Sam in the chest. “Keep your voice down Sam, you want dad to hear you?” he growled out, his voice low and laced with anger.

“Yeah, what would he say?” Sam drawled, shoving Dean back, pushing him up against the Impala again. “What would he say if he knew what a freak I am, having the hots for my big brother? You know Dean, I’ve seen the way you look at me, I _know_ you feel this too. You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”

Sam was in Dean’s space now, Sam glaring up into Dean’s shocked face. “I don’t – I don’t _look at you_ , fuck Sammy, where are you getting this?”

The small, heated space between them seemed to quiver as Sam reached out and pulled Dean’s head down, kissing him hard and ruthlessly. Dean _whimpered_ , hands gripping Sam’s shoulders, not pulling him closer nor pushing him away but simply holding him in place, his mouth opening beneath Sam’s for a moment before he hastily turned away, letting go of Sam as though burned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Sam stared with hooded eyes, breathing heavily. When he finally spoke, he sounded defeated. “So, is this how it’s going to be? Are we just going to fight this for the rest of our lives?”  

Dean’s eyes didn’t meet Sam’s when he said: “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

*

Sam asked Dean to kiss him for the first time when he was eighteen.

Dean stood in front of him, eyes wide and terrified, a piece of paper in a fancy shade of eggshell clutched in his hand. “Sammy… Sammy, what is this?”

Sam swallowed, rising to his feet as he crossed his arms over his chest. “An acceptance letter. From Stanford. You can read, right?”

Dean stared at him, and Sam couldn’t recall when Dean had looked this young to him, like a child, his eyes uncertain and vulnerable. Dean asked hoarsely: “You’re going to California?”

“Yes.”

Dean took a hesitant step forwards, eyes pleading. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Sam, please. Man, I’m begging you. You can’t leave.”

Sam watched Dean, his chest aching. The love he felt for Dean was rivalled only by his despise for him; how _dared_ Dean ask anything from Sam, how dared he imply that he needed him, how dared he _toy_ with him like this?  

“Sam,” Dean murmured, stepping into Sam’s personal space and the scent that was so simply _Dean_ made Sam go weak in the knees. “What do I have to do to make you stay?”

Sam’s hands trembled as he cupped Dean’s face; observing every freckle, every dark eyelash framing his impossibly green eyes, trying frantically to memorize his brother’s face. “You know what I want, Dean,” Sam whispered, not trusting himself to speak up. “And I can’t stay here, with you but not _with you,_ forever. It hurts too much, it breaks me down, I just can’t anymore. I have to go.”

Dean’s fingers curled around Sam’s wrist, their foreheads resting against each other as they allowed themselves to share a breath, to share a small, fleeting moment of intimacy. Sam could feel Dean’s entire body tremble; he could feel Dean’s pulse flutter impossibly fast beneath his fingertips. “Kiss me,” Sam begged in a whisper, his lips almost brushing against Dean’s. “Kiss me, and I’ll stay.”

“I’m so sorry Sammy,” Dean croaked. “It ain’t right. I can’t. _We can’t_.”

Later, as Dean numbly watches the door slam shut behind Sam, Dean wonders morbidly if this is what amputation feels like.  

*

Sam spends years not thinking about Dean. He spends years learning how to simply let the memory of Dean’s laugh and scent fade, he spends years not looking at photos or talking about his brother. He becomes so good at it that he _finally_ learns how to fall in love with Jessica, a sweet little thing that should’ve taken seconds, not _years_ , to fall in love with.

Once he does, he feels it. He feels normal, for the first time in his life, and it’s an oddly anticlimactic sensation. He just realizes one day, sitting in class, that he finally lives a normal life. He isn’t some misfit kid on the road anymore; he isn’t spending his nights salting and burning, he isn’t the freak who wants his brother so much he aches from it, not anymore.

The following night Sam dreams of pale skin dusted by freckles, he dreams of the scent of soap and motor oil, he dreams of low, pearly laughter in the backseat of a 67-Impala. His face is streaked by tears when he wakes up and Jessica asks him who Dean is, because apparently, Sam talks in his sleep.

Sam feels like the wound he’s spent years trying to carefully and methodically heal has been brutally torn open again.

*

Dean walks back into Sam’s life with a shit-eating grin slapped on his face, and Sam wants to punch him in the mouth. Dean waltzes back into Sam’s sphere again, crawls back under Sam’s skin with a single bat of his fucking ridiculous eyelashes and Sam hates Dean almost as much as he hates himself for how powerless he is against Dean, still, even after all these years of fucking _deantox_.

Then Jessica burns and Sam’s last barrier against Dean crumbles and dies with her, and he can’t seem to control himself. He shoves Dean up against the wall of their motel room, finding a small satisfaction in the fact that Dean must look up at _him_ these days. “What do you want from me, Dean?” Sam growls, “Why are you _here_?”

Dean’s _theworldismine_ smug smirk is gone, and he glares up at Sam. “I’m here because dad’s gone, _frat boy_ ,” Dean sneers.  

Sam does punch him then, fist crashing into Dean’s face with a satisfying crunch.

Dean reels from the impact before he straightens himself up and glares at Sam, challengingly, as he wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “Feeling better now?” he asks in a low, contemptuous grumble.

“Like you ever cared,” Sam says, bitterly, before he punches Dean again.

Dean doesn’t hit him back, he simply takes all of Sam’s punches, and once Sam comes to his senses Dean is blue and swollen, blood dripping down his chest. Sam stops himself, backs away from Dean who, without Sam’s grip to hold him up, collapses against the wall and slumps to the floor like a ragdoll.

Sam storms away from their motel but he doesn’t even make it across the parking lot before he bends over and vomits.

*

When Sam returns in the morning, Dean is asleep.

Sam’s brought two cheap takeaway coffees with him, and he puts them gingerly on the table before he walks into the bathroom and soaks a towel in cold water. He sinks down on Dean’s bed and starts to wipe his brother’s face, carefully, swallowing as Dean flinches in his sleep.

Dean’s face is unrecognizable, and Sam cringes as he looks at his own bloody knuckles.

Dean’s eyes draws open, and he croaks: “Sam?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says immediately; “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“Nah,” Dean forces out around a smile that Sam can tell is painful. “I had it coming.”

Sam has something on the tip of his tongue, but the gleam in Dean’s eyes makes him falter, because Sam’s still so stupidly in love with this boy, and Dean could always weaken him with _a fucking look_.  

“Sam,” Dean offers quietly, “Will you come here for a bit?”

Sam doesn’t even speak, he simply crawls beneath Dean’s covers and wraps an arm around his brother.

Dean nose is burrowed in Sam’s hair when he whispers: “You’re shaking, Sammy.”

“Don’t tell me to leave,” Sam whispers into the washed cotton of Dean’s T-shirt. “I can’t leave you. Not again. I don’t know how.”

“You couldn’t leave me again even if you tried,” Dean says softly into the morning light. “I don’t _live_ without you, Sam.”

Sam moves then, pops himself up on his elbow and glances down into Dean’s injured face. “You did,” he mumbles, “For a while, you did.”

Dean’s fingers threads through Sam’s hair and he says simply: “No, Sammy, I didn’t. I tried, god help me, I tried. I tried so hard to live without you, without my stupid baby brother, but I couldn’t. I tried to tell myself that what we had wasn’t… Wasn’t _this_ , but it is, and I, fuck it Sam, I can’t anymore. I need to be with you. I need you, please, I know I’ve said shit but you know that it’s just _shit_ , right? I need you, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes meets Dean’s, and everything Dean isn’t eloquent enough to say is written right there in his terrified eyes, and Sam isn’t scared anymore. He leans down and presses his lips softly against Dean’s, his heart fluttering in his chest as he feels Dean pull him closer.

When they break for air, dizzy and shyly well-kissed, Sam asks, because he needs to know: “Did you feel the same? In the beginning, did you feel it?”

Dean kisses his forehead, then he says, softly: “Since the fire, Sam.”


	64. WIP

Dean’s eyes are closed as Sam’s long fingers scissors him open, brutally pleasuring; Dean feels like something is being taken from him, from _them_ , and he clutches Sam’s upper arm, hissing. Sam’s voice is hot and damp against Dean’s temple when he whispers: “He wants this,” and Dean feels tears trickle down his cheeks because _he wants this too_ , so badly that he aches from it, has for years.

But Sam, his Sam, _would never ask for it_ , and that should make a difference, but when the soulless replica of Sam touches him _ohgodjustlikethat_ and whispers dirty promises in Sam’s voice Dean just can’t resist it, not after all these years of _wanting_.

When this stranger beneath Sam’s skin pushes inside of him, Dean sees stars. And when Dean soon inevitably comes, hotly and messily from Sam’s cock alone, he prays that Sam will forgive him.


	65. WIP

It’s the little things that makes Mary wary, at first. The way they stand too close; how they always are within each other’s reach - their shoulders brushing against each other, hands that lingers just a tad too long when handing over a beer, knees and ankles bumping against each other beneath tables.

 _It isn’t normal_ , Mary thinks, cold dread pooling in her gut as she sees the look in Dean’s eyes as he watches Sam stich himself up after a hunt, his bare torso glistening with sweat and blood.

Her last glimpse of hope that her two sons aren’t fucking, _God help them_ , dies for good when she one evening catches the two of them in one of the bunkers many corridors.

Sam is leaning against the wall, his neck arched into a haughty line as he gazes down into Dean’s smoothly grinning face. Their bodies are practically one, Dean’s standing in the space between Sam’s legs, their hips obscenely pressed against each other as Sam’s hands circles Dean’s waist possessively.

They haven’t noticed her; probably because they are so caught up in each other. Sam murmurs something to Dean, whose low rumble of laughter holds so much promise that Mary feels sick to her stomach.

She looks away, horrified, as Sam leans down and covers Dean’s mouth in a lazy, suggestive kiss.

Mary stumbles into the kitchen, pours four fingers of whisky into a glass and knocks it back, immediately, before repeating. Castiel is there, sitting at the table. He looks at her, and she sees it now; the pity in his eyes, ever present when he looks at her. She grimaces as the liquor burns its way down her throat, then she asks: “You knew?”

Castiel looks at her like that again, with pity; the look in his eyes reminds Mary of an owner who must put their sick dog down. “Yes,” he acknowledges simply. “They… They aren’t the most subtle of men.”

“They have to stop. We must stop them,” she says, and it hangs in the air like a question.

Castiel gets up from the table, a crooked, sad sort of smile playing over his face. “When the world stops spinning,” he murmurs, dryly.

Mary stares at the angel under a pregnant silence, and Castiel puts his hand over hers, as awkwardly as he does everything else. “Mary,” he offers, “I’ve seen evil, and I’ve seen good, and I’ve seen every shade in between. Your boys are _good_ , and whatever they share… It’s just love - earth shattering, unrivalled, love.”

When Castiel leaves the kitchen shortly after that, Mary wonders numbly if it had been a curse to pray for angels to watch over her boys.  


	66. WIP

Sam is a heap of long, skinny limbs on top of Dean where they lie tangled together on the narrow motel bed, Dean’s lips kissing along the line of Sam’s throat. Sam giggles, nuzzling into the warm place where Dean’s neck and shoulder meet.

“Do you love me?” little Sammy asks, playfully; because he knows Dean does but he loves hearing him say it.

Dean looks at him through lidded, sleepy looking eyes with his mouth curled in a faint, affectionate smile. “I love you. I’d do anything for you, Sammy. I’d die for you. I’d go to hell for you.”

Sammy giggles again, because Dean can be so dramatic sometimes. He kisses Dean’s lips softly, and that’s that.

Sam hasn’t thought about this memory in years, but he does now.

He stares down at Dean, who lies before him on the floor; torn and beaten by hell hounds.

Dean’s eyes aren’t warm, nor sleepy. Not anymore. They’re open and horrible, staring unseeingly past Sam, who seems to have forgotten how to cry.

Sam simply waits, eyes never leaving Dean.

But Dean doesn’t stir.

And Sam does cry when he realizes that Dean kept his promise.


	67. WIP

“Sammy don’t,” Dean whispers into the darkness of the night. “It’s wrong.”

Little Sammy’s soft bangs tickles the inside of Dean’s thigh. Sam keens quietly. “Let me, Dean? I can tell you want it.”

Dean’s cock is hard and leaking, and he knows he’s losing. With a quiet groan, he tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair. He smears the head of his cock against Sam’s waiting lips, and orders: “Fuck, fine. Suck me, baby boy. But this is the last time. We can’t keep doing this.”

Sammy gratefully swallows his big brother’s cock, worships it. God, how he wants it in him; wants Dean to fuck him with it; hard and fast and mercilessly.

Next time, little Sammy thinks, as Dean shoots down his throat with a strangled groan.

Next time.


	68. WIP

“Sammy, not _here_ ,” Dean says lowly, gently removing Sam’s skinny arms from around his neck. “People can see.”

The parking lot outside the diner is almost empty, but John might be out with their takeaway dinner any minute.

Sam’s mouth is a displeased, defiant line. “I hate this,” he declares. “I hate not being allowed to kiss you whenever I want. I hate hiding. I hate _everyone_.”  

Dean’s eyes flicker to the door. “I know, baby boy,” he says lowly. “But if people would see, if dad found out… They would take me away from you, you understand? I’d never get to see you again, I-“

Dean stops himself, because his throat suddenly aches horribly, and he bites his lip. “I can’t let that happen,” he finishes, staring to the ground.

He feels Sam’s warm fingers thread through his own. When he looks up, Sam’s eyes are dark and hot with promise, and Dean feels like he could drown in that gaze.

When Sam speaks his voice is strangely calm, but somehow ominous. Dean isn’t sure if he likes it or if it scares him.

“Let them try to take you from me. _Let them see what I’d do to them.”_

Then Sam smiles a perfectly innocent, fifteen-year-old boy smile.

Dean goes cold when he realizes that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and when Sam kisses him, he feels powerless to stop him.


	69. WIP

Like, they’ve both been pining for each other ever since they reunited again. Dean has been the bolder one, a few times, letting Sam know what he wants but Sam’s been too worried about screwing anything up between them, so scared of ruining what they have. Now though, with Dean all weak and sickly looking, eyes determined but with a hint of fear, Sam just can’t deny him anything.

Dean rests his head against Sam’s chest, fingertips gently running beneath Sam’s sweater and he just asks: “Sam, please. Don’t say no.”

And Sam just kisses him, softly, picks him up – he’s so _light_ , he must’ve lost so much weight – and lowers him to the bed. “You sure?” he mumbles, his thumb tracing Dean’s bottom lip. “We can wait. Until you’re better.”

The way Dean looks at him breaks Sam’s heart. He looks confused, almost angry. “I’m not gonna get better,” he tells him quietly. “Don’t let me die without having this, please. You do want me, right?”

And Sam _aches_ because Dean looks momentarily uncertain, like he doubts that Sam wants him more than he wants air. “Yeah,” he whispers against Dean’s lips. “You don’t know how much.”

Dean’s mouth opens beneath his, and they kiss slowly and messily, Dean moaning weakly, fingernails digging into Sam’s shoulder. Sam undresses himself and Dean deliberately, fingertips mapping out his body. He lets his hands caress along the line of Dean’s torso, dipping into the hollow of his collarbone before he reaches down and grasps Dean’s cock; hard and straining against his stomach.

Sam marvels at how perfect it feels, how _right_ , as he begins to stroke it.

Dean’s eyes draw open, impossibly dark eyelashes casting small shadows over his beautiful face which is so pale that the freckles dusting his nose stands out even more than usual. “Sam,” he gasps, pushing Sam’s hair out of his face.

Sam watches under silence how Dean spread his legs, his determined eyes never leaving Sam’s, and it’s the most erotic fucking moment of Sam’s life.

He releases Dean’s cock and finds his hole, gently running his index finger over it, breath hitching as he feels it twitch under his touch.

“In my duffle,” Dean says, blushing, and Sam kisses him again before getting the lube from Dean’s pocket.

Sam slathers his fingers with it, circling Dean’s entrance, his eyes firmly fixed on Dean’s face.

“Have you ever done this before?” Sam asks, pushing the tip of his index finger into Dean’s tight body.

Dean’s eyes are closed, eyebrows knotted in concentration. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Not recently though.”

Sam feels a stab of _something_. It’s not jealousy; because he knows that what they share is something far too profound and he doesn’t need to be jealous, not really. It feels a bit more like disappointment, that someone else got so see Dean like this, all spread out and beautiful, before he did.

Dean seems to sense Sam’s reaction, because he looks at him, bites his lip, and says: “It wasn’t like this. It could never have been like this. Sam, this is with _you_.”

Sam nods, rests his forehead against Dean’s and works another finger into Dean’s hole. It’s so tight, and hot, and perfect, and Sam’s cock twitches.

Dean let’s out a sudden hiss, and Sam freezes. “Did I hurt you?”

Dean shakes his head, his hips rising to meet Sam’s fingers. “More,” he breathes, and Sam can’t look away from Dean because he’s _too fucking beautiful_ like this; flushed and just a little out of breath, eyes closed, his puffy lips parted.

Sam crooks his fingers again, and Dean makes a noise that makes Sam’s heart skip a beat.

“You like that?” Sam asks quietly, adding a third finger. His cock is weeping, begging for attention, but this is about Dean.

“Uh huh,” Dean manages, his hips fully moving against Sam’s hand now, shamelessly riding his fingers. “Sam, fuck, I’m – I want you to.”

Sam’s trembling, because he’s never been this turned on in his life, and he can’t stop himself from whispering into Dean’s ear: “You ready for my cock, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes are half-lidded, the look in them entirely certain. “Fuck me. I’m ready. Do it.”

Sam gets on his knees between Dean’s spread legs, feeling Dean’s eyes on him as he pours lube all over his dick, giving it a few strokes.

“You’re gorgeous, Sammy,” Dean rasps, his cheeks pink. “Wish we’d done this sooner.”

Sam lines his dick against Dean’s loosened opening, threading his fingers through Dean’s, anchoring him. “We’ll have time,” Sam promises against Dean’s lips, as he begins to push inside of him. “I swear, Dean.”

Dean’s fingers dig into Sam’s bicep, hissing as Sam works his way into him.

Sam lets out a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the feeling of Dean clenching around him. It’s so hot and perfect; better than he ever have imagined it, and he knows that he’s ruined for anyone else, he’s Dean’s, wholly and fully and forever, regardless of what happens.

Sam pauses to give Dean a moment to adjust. He looks closely at Dean’s face, looking for any signs of pain. “You OK?”

Dean grins at him; flashes him that smug, cocky grin that Sam has fallen so hopelessly in love with. “Never better. Now fuck me, I won’t break. And if I do, I’ll go happily.”

Sam lets out a shuddering sort of laughter before he begins to move, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back inside. He’s already so fucking close to coming, and he must briefly close his eyes because the sight of Dean beneath him is just _too much_.

“Yess,” Dean keens, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist.

Sam thrusts grows steadier, deeper, as he wraps one arm around Dean, lifting him up so they’re flush against each other. He can feel Dean’s hot gasps against the shell of his ear, and everything is _perfect_.

“Ah, ah, ah - _yes_ , _there_ ,” Dean moans suddenly, fingernails digging into Sam’s back.

Sam finds the spot again; hits it with every other thrust, and Dean mewls in his arms, begs for him to go faster, harder, but Sam maintains the pace he’s set. He won’t hurt Dean, and he would hate himself if he lost control.

“You think you can come like this?” Sam asks, still not able to tear his eyes from Dean’s face. “From just my cock?”

Dean moans then, his eyes meeting Sam’s and he comes messily all over their stomachs, and it’s the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen, _Dean coming just from Sam’s cock,_ and he can’t stop himself. He comes inside of Dean, crying out his brother’s name as he fills him up. His orgasm seems to go on forever, and when he finally collapses next to Dean on the bed, he’s still seeing stars.

Dean smiles at him, lazily, his eyes tired and soft.

Sam threads his fingers gently through Dean’s hair, eyeing him worriedly. “You OK?”

Dean curls into him, and Sam can feel his heart beating beneath his far too prominent ribcage. It beats irregularly, and Sam wants to _kill_ something. “Yeah, I’m more than OK. Considering that I’m dying.”

Sam hugs Dean as hard as he dares to him, buries his face in Dean’s neck. “I won’t let that happen. You hear me Dean? _I won’t let it_.”

Sam feels Dean tense up in his arms for a moment, then he relaxes again; allows himself to melt into Sam’s embrace. “Okay, Sammy. I believe you.”

When Sam finally falls asleep, he sleeps well, knowing that Dean _finally_ has faith in him.


	70. WIP

“We _need_ to talk about it, Dean.”

Sam’s face is pale, and he sounds like he’s fighting back tears.

Dean sinks down onto the motel bed, buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t speak.

_Fucking Zachariah._

Dean can still hear Sam’s moan as Dean had fucked him bent over that desk, can still remember how his little brother had begged for it; _harder, faster, yes fuck, right there_.  

“Dean?” Sam sounds so, so terrified.

Dean can’t look at him. When the silence starts to become unbearable, he says: “We didn’t know. It wasn’t us. We’ll never talk about it.”

Dean ignores Sam’s silent sob, gets up from the bed, and walks out.  


	71. WIP

“Dean, that’s enough! I get it, okay? _I fucking get it_. You think I shouldn’t have left, you think it was a mistake of me to go to college. You’ve made your point, now would you let it go? I’m so sick of fighting all the time!”

Dean stares at Sam. He opens his mouth, then closes it. His hands are tight fists in his pockets; nails digging bluntly into his palms.

He looks at Sam’s frustrated face, and swallows.

He says nothing, because he’s afraid of what he might say.

He’s afraid he might let it slip how much it claws at his heart every time Sam talks warmly about his time away from him. How it feels like he can’t breathe when he realizes that the happiest Sam’s ever been was when they were apart; time Dean had spent drowning in whiskey and darkness.

He’s afraid he might let it slip how his anger has nothing to do with Sam leaving the life; how it’s not anger at all.

It’s simply heartbreak, but Dean won’t ever tell him that.

He just shoves past Sam, trails after the weird bug kid in the forest, and feels blood run along his palms.  


	72. WIP

”And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy – well. That ain’t gonna be mercy either.”

Sam caught a glimpse of his brother’s unsettling grin in the rearview mirror. Dean’s teeth gleamed in the faint light from the streetlamps. His eyes were fixed on the back of Sam’s neck, unblinking. The creature in the backseat of the Impala truly was a demon, but Sam knew – _he fucking knew_ – that his brother was still in there.

Dean was still within Sam’s reach.

His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I’ll have you back, Dean. I’ll _take you back_ , you hear me?”

Dean’s laugh was soft and cruel, crackling with promise. Sam tried to ignore the chill that ran down his spine.

“This demon thing sure as hell is interesting,” Dean drawled in that impossibly rough voice of his.

Sam stopped, turning around to face his demonic brother who was currently tied to a chair, a devil’s trap keeping him there. Sam swallowed before he took the bait. “Why?” he asked, shortly.

“It changed me, Sammy. And I’m not just talking about my pretty black pebbles.”

Dean’s black eyes turned green and glittering as his mouth twisted into a smirk. “I used to hate weakness,” he said. “Weakness in others. In you,” he said, grinning as Sam twitched. “It made my skin crawl. I didn’t know what to do with all that weakness. Didn’t know how to make it go away. Now, though. Now I see it in a whole new light.”

Sam felt nausea twist his gut as Dean’s eyes stared intently at him, the tip of his pink tongue grazing his bottom lip. “How?” he asked, tonelessly.

Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Now I fucking love it!” he growled, his chest heaving. “My _god_ , Sammy – I can smell that weakness in you. All that fear. Smells so fucking _good_.”

Sam swallowed as he reflexively took a step back. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, and he could tell from Dean’s feral grin that he knew as well as Sam did that he was lying through his teeth.

Dean was a crazy, newborn demon running on raw power and rage. Sam was a human with a useless arm. He was absolutely terrified.

“You know it’s only a matter of time before I get out of this chair, Sam. Do you have any idea what I’m gonna do to you when I do?”

Dean’s green eyes met his. There was an unnatural coldness in them; a deep and menacing promise in the gaze that Dean really, _really_ didn’t plan on showing Sam any mercy.

Sam looked away and began walking towards the door. He needed to get out of there, he felt cold and almost shivery and he’d be damned if he let Dean see the impact he was having. Over his shoulder, Sam replied: “I’m gonna have to keep you in that chair, then.”

*

The empty chair that met Sam when he returned a few hours later sent a cold, foreboding chill down his spine. Taking a deep breath to keep himself from panicking, he did his outmost to keep his head cold, however that was the moment when a firm hand wrapped around his throat and tugged him backwards, causing him to fall to the ground on his knees.

“I told you,” Dean growled against his ear. “Only a matter of time, Sammy.”

Dean gripped Sam’s damaged arm with a dark chuckle, squeezed it, and when Sam passed out, he didn’t know it was from the shock or the pain.

*

When Sam woke up, he couldn’t move. He was tied to his bed, except for his useless arm, which rested painfully over his chest. When he realized that he was naked he felt a kind of panic he’d never experienced before surge through him, it made his skin crawl, and he had to stifle his first impulse, which was to cry out to Dean for help.

Turned out, Dean was already there. He sat in a chair in the corner, watching Sam. His eyes were completely black, and Sam fought back tears.

“Dean,” Sam said, his voice pitiful and pleading even to his own ears. “Please, I _know_ you. I know you’re still in there.”

Dean got up from the chair, his eyes shifting back into his green, the familiarity of them a taunt.

“There was enough humanity in me to be able to walk right past that devil’s trap,” Dean murmured, eyes roaming in an unsettling way over Sam’s naked body. “And I’m finally gonna do to you what Dean was too much of a pussy to do when he was human.”

Sam’s gut twisted as he saw the twinkle in Dean’s eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asked, tugging desperately at his restraints.

Dean licked his lips as he shrugged out of his shirt. “You gotta be blind, Sammy. Did you never connect the dots? Why the fuck did you think Dean was so obsessed with you? Huh? The way you broke his heart when you left to be some beer chugging frat boy; how he died for you, how he tied himself to you in every possible way? Did you think that was all out of good old fashioned _brotherly affection_? Were you really that naive, Sammy?”  

Sam watched in horror as Dean shed his jeans, still with that predatory gleam in his eyes. “You’re lying,” he said vehemently. “Demons always lie.”

Dean smirked. “Human enough to feel what Dean wants, baby brother. And enough demon in me to give him exactly that.”

Sam made a noise of protest as Dean straddled him with a moan, rubbing his dick against Sam’s belly. “Fuck, how long I’ve wanted this,” Dean sighed. “You have no idea, little brother. Been thinking about pounding that sweet little ass of yours since you were _fifteen_.”

Sam twisted beneath him, a pathetic mewl of objection escaping him before Dean backhanded him, hard, across his face. “I know you fucking want this too,” Dean growled above him, stroking his hard cock with leisure.

“No, I _don’t_!” Sam gasped, squirming furiously beneath Dean, his heart hammering with panic in his chest, his cheek burning from the blow.  

“I don’t care,” Dean hissed against his ear, his fingernails scraping against Sam’s nipples. “You’ll pretend you want it, you hear me? I want to hear you _beg for my cock_ , Sammy.”

“Please,” Sam begged, muffled into Dean’s warm neck. It smelled of his brother, it smelled like _safety_ , and he couldn’t seem to stop the tears. “Please Dean, don’t do this.”

Dean moved up, his knees digging into Sam’s ribs. His teeth gleamed when he ordered, breathlessly: “Open your mouth. You’re gonna look so good with your lips wrapped around my cock.”

Dean’s leaking cock rubbed against Sam’s lips, coating them with precum. Sam closed his eyes, repressed a sob, and opened his mouth. Dean’s cock was heavy and bitter on his tongue and Sam tried not to choke on it when the tip hit the back of his throat.

“Shit,” Dean gasped, eyes half lidded as they looked down at Sam in awe, his fingers grasping Sam’s hair as he fucked his mouth. “You were made for this, Sammy. Should’ve done this _years ago_.”

Sam was a gasping, spluttering mess when Dean pulled out, his voice raspy and broken when he begged: “Stop it, Dean _please_ stop it, I can’t do this.”

Dean dragged his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, mockingly wiping away his tears. “Yes you can, Sammy. Doing _beautifully_.” Dean held up two fingers at Sam’s abused mouth, his other hand still wrapped up in Sam’s hair, keeping his head in place. “Get them nice and wet, baby boy, cause this is all prep you’re getting.”

Sam stared up at Dean, his entire body going stiff with anxiety. He shook his head. “No. No, Dean, not this. Don’t do this to me, to _us_.”  

Dean grinned against Sam’s cheek, inhaling deeply, forcing his fingers into Sam’s mouth. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. How fucking guilty I’ve felt all these years for wanting to bend my little brother over and make you take it for me, to own you; to mark you up. Fuck, Sam. Your Dean is in here, you get that? He’s right here, and you know what? _He loves this_.”

Dean’s eyes were black again, and Sam whined around the fingers in his mouth, head reeling. Soon, Dean withdrew his fingers and began to push at Sam’s reluctant entrance, smearing spit across the furled muscle.

“Relax that pretty hole for me sweetheart,” Dean whispered against Sam’s ear, making Sam shudder.

“Fuck you,” Sam spat, arching his body as much as he can to get away, crying out when Dean bit into his throat.

“I’m gonna fuck that spite right outta you,” Dean promised in a dark whisper as his fingers pushed into Sam’s reluctant body. “Gonna make you beg for it, Sammy. Always wanted to hear you moan for my cock.”

Sam hissed as Dean’s fingers proceeded to move, scissoring him open deliberately. Sam wished it had hurt, wished he had sharp pain to focus on, but Dean went so slowly and methodically that he only felt a slight burn where he was being stretched open. “Dean,” he whispered again, even if he began to realize that it was useless. “Don’t, please.”

Dean’s black eyes stared down at Sam’s face, transfixed, as he began to fuck Sam with his fingers. “So hot and sweet in here, brother,” Dean said hoarsely. “Always knew you’d be.”

Dean did something then, crooked his fingers, and touched something inside Sam that sent a jolt of pleasure through him and pulled an unexpected, unwanted moan from him. Dean laugh was soft and triumphant. “Like that, baby?”

Sam shook his head furiously, feeling his face heat up with shame as he felt his cock rise against his will, curling up against his stomach, flushed and leaking. “No!” he lied, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Now who’s the liar,” Dean murmured, pressing against that spot again, making Sam arch his back from the pleasure, biting his lip to keep from moaning. “Let go, little brother. _I want you to want this_.”

The third time Dean’s fingers assaulted that little bundle of nerves that seemed to set Sam on fire, he couldn’t help himself. He pushed against Dean’s fingers, into the touch, and whined from the overwhelming sensation that washed over him. Sam turned his face away from Dean’s, humiliated.

“You look so hot like this,” Dean purred against the shell of his ear, his fingers lazily fucking in and out of Sam’s body. “You want more, don’t you? You want my cock, right? Tell me you want my cock, Sammy. Beg for big brother.”

“You’re not my brother,” Sam hissed into the room, still refusing to face Dean. He couldn’t bear those ugly black eyes jammed into Dean’s wonderful face; couldn’t bear the shame of being so utterly betrayed by his body that he actually was beginning to enjoy this awful, nightmarish creature’s treatment.

“ _Yes I am_ ,” Dean growled, impatience vibrating through every word, making Sam tremble. “I’m your brother, and I will fuck you, because I’m finally taking what I’ve been denying myself for _years_. Now, can I untie your legs? Will you be a good boy for big brother, Sammy?”

Sam turned his face towards Dean in a flash of anger and spat him right in one of those horrible eyes. Dean immediately rewarded him with another harsh blow across his face, and this time, Sam could taste blood in his mouth.

Dean’s mouth curled into a cruel sneer. “I want you to enjoy this,” he snarled, “That doesn’t mean I won’t go through with it even if you don’t. Now, I’m asking again: Can I untie your legs, or do you want to get fucked all tied up like the little bitch you are?”

Sam swallowed both blood and his pride. “You can untie me.”

When Sam’s legs were free, he made some futile attempts to kick at Dean, who easily caught his legs and wrapped them around his waist. He smirked down at Sam, reaching out to stroke Sam’s now half hard cock back to full erection, and said: “This is where you’ve always belonged, Sammy. You’ll see.”

He lined himself up against Sam’s loosened opening, and pushed all the way in, causing Sam to cry out in pain. “Dean, it hurts!” It came out on impulse, because Dean had always been the one to fix things, to take care of him when he was in pain.

He certainly wasn’t now.

Dean began to move, his thrusts hard and merciless. “Oh god, fuck, _yes_ , that’s – ah, Sam, you’re so fucking tight, so hot, _fuck_ -“

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let that black stare etch itself into his memory more than it already had. Then Dean changed his angle ever so slightly, and he began to hit that one spot that had made Sam see stars.

Sam thrashed under him, involuntary wrapping his legs firmer around Dean, as little _ah!ah!ah’s_ unbiddenly began to pour from his lips. Dean lowered himself to they lay flush against each other, Dean’s stomach rubbing against Sam’s leaking cock with every thrust.

Dean’s voice brimmed with awe when he gasped into Sam’s neck: “You feel that, Sammy? Feel how good we are together?”

Sam made a feeble noise, too lost in the assaulting pleasure to care that he couldn’t form a coherent protest. Dean slowed down the pace of his thrusts, holding Sam’s leg up to ensure that he still hit that sweet spot over and over again. Sam could only make undignified, keening noises as Dean fucked him every so slowly towards the edge.

Dean’s voice was almost unbearably soft when he said: “Look at me, Sam.”

Dean’s green eyes were back, so warm and familiar that Sam almost for a second believed this was his Dean, and he sobbed softly, “Dean.”

Dean cupped his face gently and pressed his lips against Sam’s, drinking down Sam’s moans. He kissed him softly, teeth only grazing over Sam’s bottom lip. “Come for me,” Den whispered against his lips, fingers curling gently around Sam’s throat. “Sammy, please?”

Sam came with a soft whimper, his face wet with sweat and tears. He felt Dean follow almost immediately, shooting his hot load inside Sam’s body with a throaty grunt, before he collapsed on top of him.

“Please get away from me,” Sam said, trying his outmost to find dignity and strength within himself to not sound completely broken. He could tell that he failed completely, because Dean looked at him in _pity_.

Dean’s rough voice was matter-of-factly when he told him: “You _liked_ it, Sammy. I could tell. You wanted it.”

Sam curled up, wishing for anything to cover himself up with. He felt the demon’s come leak out from him, and he buried his face in the pillow. 

“I wanted it with _Dean_ ,” Sam confessed tonelessly into the room. “I’ve known for years that what I want from him is something far more than simply being brothers. I never found the courage to tell him, and now – everything’s ruined. You’ve taken everything from me, from us. What could’ve been. It’s gone now.”

Dean, or the demon, or whoever it was who lay beside Sam stared at him under silence; unsure green eyes flickering over Sam’s face as if trying to find proof that he’s lying.

Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was beneath a blanket. The restraints were gone, and so was Dean. Castiel sat next to him on the bed, looking more morose than usual.

Castiel told him that Dean was cured; that he’d only been one shot of human blood away from humanity.

Sam didn’t answer.  


	73. WIP

Sam, king of hell, sits on his throne with his favorite consort draped all over his lap. Dean’s eyes shift from the deepest black to glittery green when Sam strokes his hair carefully, admiring his brother’s beautiful face.

“I have a gift for you,” Sam says softly, fingers threading through Dean’s.

With a nod to the guards, the doors open. Dean tears his gaze away from Sam, his eyes widening.

Two lanky boys are being brought into the hall in chains, dragged along the aisle and pushed to their knees in front of the throne.

It’s Sam, little soft eyed twenty-one-year-old Sammy in a Stanford hoodie with ink stains on his hands. Next to him is Dean, eyes sparkling defiantly, shoulders hunched beneath his father’s too big leather jacket. “Who are you?” he demands hotly, eyes flickering between the king and his consort, eyes narrowing at the possessive way they’re wrapped around each other. “And why do you look like us?”

Sam says into Dean’s ear: “No one is good enough for you but _us_. Do you like your new pets, my sweet?”

Dean looks up at his king, pupils blown wide. Licking his lips, he replies: “ _Our new pets_.”

Sam’s eyes gleam red for an instant, before he kisses Dean.


	74. WIP

Sam and Dean stumbles, slightly tipsy, out from a bar, laughing and shoving at each other. There’s only been a few weeks since Dean got Sam from Stanford, and for the first time Dean feels completely relaxed in Sam’s company.

“Hello pretty one,” says a man in the parking lot, leering at Dean. “Leaving so soon?”

Dean stares at him, blushes under the shameless gaze, and says: “Huh?”

Sam giggles next to him, before he tugs at Dean’s sleeve. “Sorry man, this one’s taken,” he says to the man, grinning over his shoulder as he drags Dean towards the impala.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Sam teases as they reach the car, out of earshot of the man. “Not your type?”

Dean makes a face at him. “Very funny. Yeah, not my type, you know, him being a guy and all.”

Sam’s grin is still in place. Dean finds it kind of annoying and not at _all_ charming. “Ever given it a shot? Just a kiss?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in shock, and he splutters indignantly: “No! Have _you_?”  

Sam rolls his eyes under that stupid bangs. “I went to college Dean, not a _monastery_. Yeah, I’ve done some… Experimenting.”

Sam’s grin turns unnervingly naughty, and Dean feels his mouth go dry. “Oh?” he says, his voice small.

“Mhm.” Sam’s eyes flickers to Dean’s mouth. He licks his lips.

Dean swallows, hard, and Sam is suddenly very close; Dean finds himself trapped between his brother and the impala.

“How… How was it?” Dean asks, distracted, because Sam smells sort of good. Clean, a little smoky from the bar. He smells like home.

Sam tilts Dean’s face towards his, gently, with his thumb and his index finger. His eyes gleam in the streetlights when he asks: “Do you want me to show you?”

Dean doesn’t remember making the decision of nodding, but he must have, because Sam presses his lips to his softly, gently grazing Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth. Dean gasps lightly, letting Sam’s tongue find itself into his mouth. Sam maneuvers them so they’re pinned against the car, and Sam’s hands are warm when they find their way under Dean’s shirt.

It’s crazy, _they’re kissing_ , but it makes Dean’s entire body _sing_ with something he’s never felt before, and he whines into Sam when he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Dean’s.

“Was that OK?” Sam whispers, suddenly shy.

Dean just stares dazedly at him. “We’re getting a king-sized bed tonight,” he tells him. “Is _that_ OK?”

Sam laughs, then kisses Dean again.


	75. WIP

”Dad, he’s _burning up_. There’s no way he’s going to school with this fever.”  

Dean sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, one hand cupping Sam’s face protectively, glaring defiantly at John in the door.  

“We need to take out that nest, Dean,” John said tersely, not looking at Sam. “We can’t afford to lose a day.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You take off then. There’s only what, three vamps? You can handle the nest alone, and I’ll stay here looking after Sammy.”

There was no room for argument in Dean’s voice, because there never was when Sam was concerned. Dean was John’s good little soldier, but when it came to Sam, there was no hesitation where Dean’s loyalties truly lay.

There was an irritated touch around John’s mouth when he replied. “He’s fifteen. He can take care of himself for one day.”

Dean’s voice was very cold and his hand around Sam’s wrist very firm when he said, resolutely: “He could be _thirty_ and I wouldn’t leave him with this fever.”

John left shortly after that, not bothering to argue with Dean because he knew that there was _no way_ Dean was leaving Sam’s side when he looked like that; rosy with fever and coughing beneath the layers of blankets Dean had wrapped around him.

Sam’s eyes were soft and shiny with fever. “You didn’t have to stay here,” he rasped. “Dad’s right, I can take care of myself.”

Dean smiled softly at him, gently pushing the bangs away from Sam’s clammy forehead. “I know you can, baby boy. But I want to stay here, with you.”

Sam made a contented little noise as he leant into Dean’s touch. “Feels kinda good, being sick. When you’re here.”

Dean placed a soft kiss to Sam’s neck, just below his ear. “Want me to make you some noodle soup?”

Sam tugged at his sleeve. “Later,” he mumbled. “We can just… Lie here, for a bit. Is that OK?”

Dean wrapped himself around Sammy, burying his nose in Sam’s neck, breathing him in. “Of course, Sammy. Anything you want.”


	76. WIP

Dean’s hand is warm at the back of Sam’s neck as he pulls him in for a kiss. Pearl Jam strums thickly through the air around them in the smoky bar, and Sam sighs happily into the kiss as he wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, possessively pulling him closer.

Dean’s eyes are a bit hazy when they break apart, his mouth curled into a satisfied smile. “I love it when you do that,” he says lazily, leaning into Sam.

Sam’s eyes seem to gleam in the dark room. “Do what?” he asks, teasingly, pulling Dean even closer, his grip around Dean’s waist firm. “Show everyone in here who you belong to?”

Dean grins up at him. His laugh smells of beer and happiness, and Sam’s heart swells in his chest. For the first time in so long, there’s no horrible big bad on their asses, no apocalypse, no fighting or misunderstanding. It’s just them, at peace, and together on the road again.

“Do you fucking faggots mind?”

The scornful, southern drawl makes Dean go stiff in Sam’s arms, his soft smile freezes and fades away from his face. Sam turns around, rage crackling under his skin. He stares stonily at the man, whose scowling face is partly hidden under his cap.  

Sam takes a step forward, back straightened into his full height. He narrows his eyes at the man, who appears to intend to stand his ground; however slightly apprehensive looking now with Sam looming over him. “You want to repeat that?” Sam asks, slowly, voice dripping with anger, because _no one_ put that look on Dean’s face and got away with it.

“We don’t like seein’ none of that,” the man grunts, gesturing at them. His hands are filthy, and he reeks of cheap bourbon. “This ain’t San Francisco, so I suggest you fags fuck off outta here and leave us decent people in peace.”

Sam grasps a fistful of the man’s shirt and pushes him against the pool table. “Listen to me, you filthy redneck scum,” he snarls quietly. “I could snap your fucking neck like a _twig_ right here, and get away with it. That’s what I do, _what we do_ – luckily for you, I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty with the likes of you. So I suggest you finish that cheap drink and take off before I change my mind.”

Sam pushes him away from him and the man staggers away from him, coming up short against a wall. He glares at Sam, swears quietly, but he doesn’t say anything else. Sam turns to Dean, who’s biting his lip, pupils blown wide.

Sam cups Dean’s face gently. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and cool off,” he whispers. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Dean just nods, and when Sam strides away from them, Dean smirks at the man who’s still regarding Dean contemptuously. Dean strolls up to him, curls his finger at him and says lowly: “Wanna hear the real kicker, buddy?” His voice drops even lower, and the man reluctantly leans towards him. “That right there was my baby brother,” Dean confesses. “And now I’m gonna go find him and suck his dick, cause that performance was pretty damn hot.”

Dean snorts with laughter when the man’s face turns ashen, his jaw dropping in an appalled sort of shock.

“That’s right,” Dean murmurs. “And don’t you dare go around telling folks. He wasn’t lying. We could easily silence you, bitch.”


	77. WIP

“Sam! The dinner’s ready, so get that pretty little ass of yours in here.”

Sam looks up from the book, stretching his arms above his head. The library in the bunker is silent and calm, the scent of food thick and tempting in the air.

Sam gets up from the table and strides through the bunker towards the kitchen. He stops in the door, leaning against the doorframe, just watching Dean. He’s by the stove, stirring about three pots at once, quietly humming Deep Purple as he takes a sip from one of the opened beer bottles on the counter.

Sam closes his eyes, and remembers.

_“I hate this life,” Sam whispered into the darkness of their motel room. The bed creaked beneath them when Dean wrapped himself around Sam, held his scrawny fourteen-year-old brother tightly against his chest._

_“I know Sammy,” Dean said softly, gently kissing Sam’s neck. “I know you do.”_

_Sam crawled, if possible, closer to Dean and buried himself in his brother’s chest, breathing in that familiar scent of him that was the only good thing in his life, the only home he’d ever known. “I hate motels,” Sam said quietly into the night. “I hate takeaway food and beds that smells of strangers. I don’t want to live like this, Dean.”_

_Dean’s lips were hot against Sam’s mouth when he promised: “We’ll have a proper home one day. A home with a proper bed, with a kitchen where I’ll cook homemade food for you, for us. Where we can live, where you’ll feel at home. I promise you Sammy, one day we’ll have all of it.”_

Sam walks into the kitchen, wraps his arms around Dean’s waist from behind and whispers into his ear: “I love you.”

Dean spins around, arms tangling around Sam’s neck, looking surprised and more than a little pleased. “In a good mood, Sammy? Any luck with the research?”

Sam kisses him right there and then, against the stove with the food steaming around them. When they part, Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s. “No luck with the research,” he says softly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Dean looks at him curiously, and Sam gives him another quick kiss before he asks: “Need a hand? I can set the table.”

Dean shoves at him jokingly, nods at the untouched beer and rolls his eyes. “Nah, just sit down and relax, baby boy. I’ve got it.”

Sam does just that, and as he watches Dean swirl around the kitchen, with a little bit of tomato sauce on his cheek, he quietly realizes what happiness is.  


	78. WIP

The first time they fuck, it’s hard and fast and ruthless. Dean spits insults into Sam’s mouth as he wraps his hand around Sam’s throat; holds him down and _fucks_ him. Sam’s eyes are black, demon blood soaking his insides like liquid destruction, fingernails clawing red marks down Dean’s back.

“This what you want, bitch?” Dean growls, sweat dripping down his forehead. There’s pieces of broken glass digging into his knees; his lip is split open from Sam’s fist and he bleeds all over Sam’s chin. “Attention? Cock? Huh? Too proud to ask for it? That’s why you go and dope yourself up with demon juice?”

Sam make a noise between a whine and a snarl, his strong thighs clutching Dean’s waist almost painfully. “I hate you,” Sam gasps.

Dean wants to backhand him across the face, but he doesn’t.

Instead he angles his hips, thrusts, and makes Sam come untouched beneath him; watches mesmerized how his little brother shoots long ropes of come across his stomach and chest.

“I don’t care if you hate me, baby boy,” Dean grunts as he comes inside Sam, his fingers tangled in Sam’s hair. “Cause you look so fucking _pretty_ when you do.”


	79. WIP

Sam begs into the room. “Dean, come with me. You can’t sit here like this forever. Come with me.”

Dean doesn’t pay him any attention, and when Sam tries to put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, his hand just falls through Dean’s back.

“Sam, what am I supposed to _do_?” Dean’s devastated plea tears through him like an arrow.

Dean stares at Sam’s motionless body. Sam looks, too. He didn’t recognize himself, at first – his birthmarks were all on the wrong side of his face, and had he always been that tall? Of course, the stab wound in his back was new, too.

Sam tries to make Dean listen for days, floats above and around his brother relentlessly, trying everything in his power to reach him.

“Dean, that’s not me. Not anymore, please Dean, you need to leave. You need to eat, need to sleep. Please, just come with me.”

Dean is clutching Sam’s dead body now, and the wound makes the room reek. Sam doesn’t dare to leave, because he doesn’t know if he can find his way back to Dean if he does.

Dean confesses things to Sam’s corpse; holds him tighter and tighter. Sam feels Dean slip away, and soon he settles down next to Dean, who’s still clutching Sam’s now rotting flesh, rocking his body in his arms.

Sam leans against Dean, knowing that he can’t feel him. “It’s okay, Dean,” he whispers into Dean’s ear. “I’ll wait here with you. Until we can go together.”


	80. WIP

“Dean, I – need to tell you something.”

Dean glances at him, eyebrows furrowing at Sam’s tone. “Uh, okay,” he says, eyes on the road again. The night is thick and dark around them, and Sam wonders briefly if Arkansas ever saw the moon at all.

Sam’s hand rests over his belly. He swallows. “You might wanna pull over for this.”

Dean laughs nervously, casting Sam another glance. “Kinda freaking me out here, baby boy. What’s this about?”

Sam closes his eyes, because tears threaten to fall. He never asked for this; didn’t even know it was possible. Terrified, he says: “Just… Just pull over? I can’t be alone with this anymore.”

Dean pulls over immediately, and when the engine goes silent, Sam hears his own panicked breathing and he tries to calm himself.

Dean’s hand is warm against his neck, eyes soft and worried when he asks: “Hey, Sammy. It’s OK, take it easy. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. We always do. Tell me what’s wrong?”

Sam bites his lip. Dean’s face is so familiar and lovely, and his hands trembles when Dean laces their fingers together. “I didn’t know this could even happen,” Sam says, his voice small. “But I’m, I’m pregnant. I’m sorry.”

Sam doesn’t look at Dean, because if there’s anger or rejection in his eyes, he won’t be able to take it. He just feels Dean’s grip of his hand grow firmer, and suddenly, Dean’s breath against his mouth.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers shakily, “Open your eyes.”

Sam looks at him, eyes wide and uncertain. He feels Dean’s hand rest gently over his belly, as Dean’s bright green eyes stare into his own, shiny and exhilarated. “Are you carrying our child in here, baby?” Dean asks so tenderly, and Sam wants to cry.

Sam nods, drags his blunt fingernails across the back of Dean’s hand and whispers: “You’re not angry?”

Dean let’s out a soft noise of shock, before he kisses Sam gently. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he mumbles against Sam’s lips. “I hope the kid only gets your looks.”

Sam laughs with relief through his tears, cups Dean’s face, and kisses him back.


	81. WIP

When Dean comes to, his head is pounding painfully. It feels like it’s _swelling_ behind his forehead, and he rubs his eyes, groaning quietly. He’s passed out on top of the bed apparently, still in his clothes; he’s even wearing his shoes.

The bottle of whiskey on the bedside table isn’t quite finished off, and he reaches for it without even thinking. He gulps the few inches down; feels it burn down his throat and settle like a familiar, comforting burn in his gut.

He closes his eyes, and waits for _everything_ to ease.

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is tired and low, like he doesn’t really want to speak at all. He’s in an armchair in the corner, looking with a tight jaw at the bottle in Dean’s hand. Sam’s got a black eye, and Dean instantly realizes why the knuckles on his right hand are sore.

Dean feels his stomach drop with shame and disgust, because he’s _done it again_.

“Sam,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam swallows. His left eye looks swollen and bruised, even in the dim morning light. “Yeah,” he says, tonelessly. “You always are.”

Dean rests his head in one hand, the other one clenched around the bottle. As always, the bottomless self-loathing settles in his chest like an uninvited old friend.

“I’m quitting now. I promise you, Sammy. No more.” Dean says into the room. It reeks of booze and violence, and Dean knows he’s said those words into a hundred filthy motel rooms before.

He’s meant them every single time; and every time, Sam replies the same way.

“I won’t leave you, Dean.”


	82. WIP

The door to the motel room has _barely_ slammed shut behind a grumpy-as-always John when Dean finds himself with a lapful of a newly showered and barely decent Sammy. Dean grins up at Sam, his hands gripping his hips; thumbs stroking hipbones beneath the worn-out cotton of Sam’s boxers.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Dean says lowly, his tongue darting out to capture the drops of water that falls from Sam’s hair and onto his lips. “You in the mood, baby boy?”

Sam smiles softly against Dean’s mouth before he kisses him; slowly and suggestively, little whines escaping his throat as his fingernails gently drags across Dean’s nipples. “M’ always in the mood around you,” Sam whispers into the space that seems to shudder between them.

As they share a breath between them that smells of cheap coffee and teenage lust, Dean tangles his hands in Sammy’s wet hair.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, eyes half-lidded. “Want me to take you to the bedroom and fuck you?”

Sam bites his lip as he leans into Dean’s touch. “Nah,” he replies with that lazy, sultry grin that Dean _knows_ is going to be the death of him. “Want to ride you right here, big brother.”

Dean swears, and crashes their mouths together again.

Yes, Dean thinks, as Sam soon rides his cock loudly and shamelessly in the middle of their motel room, still in Dean’s worn out Led Zeppelin T-shirt; this kid really _would_ be the death of him. But, what a fucking beautiful way to go.  


	83. WIP

The last thing Sam saw before he closed his eyes and fell into the pit was Dean’s bruised and broken face. He fell into hell with an aching, horrible feeling of guilt and despair that the last thing he did to Dean was to beat him senseless.

When he tells Dean about this years later, Dean simply kisses him, and says: “That’s not true, Sammy. The last thing you did was to beat the devil for me.”  


	84. WIP

When Dean kisses Sam for the first time, he knows that he’s never going to get enough of him but he _swears_ he’ll spend the rest of his life trying.


	85. WIP

Sam is the king of hell, and his subjects fear him, naturally. They avoid his clear-eyed stare, and cower as he voices his demands from his throne; they tremble when he enters the room.

However, there’s one another creature they fear more.

His brother, his lifeguard, his consort, his _lover_.

Dean, the Knight of Hell, who never leaves the king’s side.

Black-eyed Dean is the most ruthless, merciless creature to have ever walked through the gates of hell, and if he detects even the slightest indication that someone’s loyalty towards Sam wavers even in the faintest way, he eliminates them.

Whenever Sam speaks to his subjects, Dean’s eyes narrows as he watches the crowd intently. He watches them all; whose gaze is the least revering? Who ceases to applaud the king first?

He takes them back to the most gruesome place; _the heart of hell_ – Sam is rumored to have affectionally named the dungeon “the Concert hall”, because the screams Dean produces in that place constantly echoes like a never-ending, ghastly symphony in there.  

Sam’s fingers are loosely curled around Dean’s throat, pushing him up against the wall of the dungeon. Torches crackles around them, and Dean’s green eyes looks like gems in the yellow light. Dean smells of exhilaration and violence, and Sam smiles softly.

“Are you enjoying yourself, brother?”

Dean’s teeth gleams when he smiles, his fingers gripping Sam’s wrist. “They make such pretty noises,” he gasps, as Sam kisses his neck, gently grazing his teeth across Dean’s jugular.

“Not as pretty as the noises you can do,” Sam whispers, his hot breath fanning all over Dean’s neck. “Finish him off,” he orders, thigh pressing against Dean’s hardening cock. “Need to fuck you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, pulls out his blade, and beheads the demon chained to the wall; who’s long ago passed out from the torture.

Dean chest heaves. “He was caught mocking your choice of consort.”

Sam stares down at the severed head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fellow of infinite jest,” he mumbles, reaching out to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean drops to his knees.


	86. WIP

Sam came out to John and Dean when he was thirteen. “There is a boy,” he’d told them. “And I think I might. Might be a little, you know. A little bit in love with him.”

Dean had thrown an arm around Sam’s shoulder, telling him to tell this guy, cause who would turn down a stunner like Sam?

John’s eyes had suddenly turned very cold and the color seemed to drain from his face as he saw Sam; cheeks red and eyes shining from Dean’s approval.

He’d said, stiffly: “You won’t tell him a thing, cause that ain’t something you wanna get mixed up with, Sam. It ain’t gonna be good for you.”

Dean had eyed John then, over the top of Sam’s messy head. “Of all the things we get _mixed up_ with on a daily basis,” Dean had said, coolly, “This is the most natural, normal thing. And I think you might want to think twice about what you just said.”

All three of them could hear the underlining anger in Dean’s voice, and Sam had held his breath because Dean had stood up for him _against dad_.  

John had stormed out, because he’d known he’d regret whatever was on the tip of his tongue just then.

Sam and Dean had stood in silence for a minute, before Sam had said: “Thank you. For, you know. Standing up for me.”

Dean’s eyes had grown soft as he pushed Sam’s hair out of his forehead. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you to change, Sammy. You’re perfect.”

Sam had bitten his lip, and he could’ve sworn he could feel his own heart beating its way out of his chest.

It was now or never, and he’d _known_ it.

Sam’s voice had been very, very small when he finally had spoken. “It’s you.”

Dean’s hand had frozen in his hair. “What?”

Sam had stared up at Dean’s familiar, beautiful face, and forced himself to confess: “The boy. That I like. That I can’t stop thinking about. That made me realize that I’m, that I, kinda, or- _very much_ – like boys. It’s you. I’m sorry, I know it’s not OK because we’re brothers and-”

Sam had suddenly found himself being pinned to the wall, Dean towering over him with eyes that were brighter than Sam ever had remembered seeing them; lips parted and warm fingers curled around Sam’s waist. “Thank _god_ ,” Dean had whispered, before pressing his lips to Sam’s in the very first kiss he’d ever had.


	87. WIP

It was endearing at first, John supposes. Dean throwing his arm possessively around Sam’s shoulders whenever anyone approached them – wasn’t that what big brothers did?

Years passes however, and Dean’s arm is still possessive around Sam’s shoulder, but John doesn’t find it cute anymore. 

Sam is sixteen and Dean has hit the blossoming twenties, and John’s stomach _turns_ when he sees the way his boys look at each other.


	88. WIP

Sam’s lips are hot against Dean’s, his tears salty in Dean’s mouth.

The parking lot smells like sunburnt asphalt around them, and Dean wants to die.

“You know I have to leave,” Sam says, his hand warm against Dean’s neck. “We can’t live like this, _hiding_ , forever.”

Dean looks at Sam’s face. The motel’s fluorescent lights have drained it from all its color, and Dean’s throat aches with sorrow; because he was too busy hunting a shapeshifter to see the sun set over Sam’s face for the last time.

Dean buries his face in Sam’s neck. “Don’t forget about me,” he mumbles. Sam’s neck smells of soap and Dean’s stolen cologne. “I’ll come for you, Sammy.”

Sam’s tears are still salty in Dean’s mouth when he promises: “I’ll be waiting.”


	89. WIP

When Sam realizes he’s meant for hell, he’s terrified.

“Stay away from me,” he pleads to Dean. “I can’t drag you down with me.”

Dean’s fingers tangle in his hair, and he _tugs_ , forcing Sam’s head back.

“Drag me wherever you’re fucking going,” Dean snarls against Sam’s mouth. “Just don’t you fucking _try_ to leave me again.”


	90. WIP

“Are you sure no one will see?” Sam whispered as he busied himself in the bathroom. He didn’t quite understand how to use the little brushes but he was determined to cover up the bruises on his pale throat.

“Yes, Sammy. _I’m sure._ Go on and finish getting ready.” Dean headed out to the car after he pushed his little brother out of the motel door.

By the time the impala pulled up at the school, Dean was wiping the make up off of his own lips and there was a new mark on Sam’s throat.

 


	91. WIP

Dean stares at Sam in utter disbelief and shock, his voice horrified when he says: “What the fuck do you mean, ‘ _you told him’_?”

Sam’s heart hammers painfully in his chest, his hands twisting anxiously together. “He’ll understand, Dean, he has to! I just couldn’t bear hiding anymore, _please_ , don’t hate me!”

Sam stumbles towards Dean. He waits for Dean to take him in his arms and kiss him like he always does; waits for Dean to tell him _It’s alright, baby boy, we’ll get through this_.

Dean does none of these things.

Instead, Dean takes a step back and looks at Sam like he’s never seen him properly before and when Sam reaches out for him, he slaps Sam’s hand away.

 “ _Don’t_ ,” Dean tells him warningly, his eyes glinting like the edge of a sharp knife.  

Dean’s shoulder bangs into his as he storms out from their motel room, and Sam feels like he’s going to be sick right there on the carpet.

Later that evening, John comes into their room and drops, without a word, a stack of college applications in Sam’s lap.

When Sam, hours later, tries to cry himself to sleep, Dean finally comes back. He has a black eye, and he doesn’t even look at Sam.

Sam wants to ask, but he doesn’t.

He knows who blacked Dean’s eye.

Dean crawls into the bed next to his, his back against Sam.

“I just wanted to be with you,” Sam whispers into the room. He feels like he can hardly breathe.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, tonelessly. “Me too.”  


	92. WIP

Sam is a little bit drunk, because he had some bourbon tonight and now Sam’s eyes are glittery; laughter bubbling beneath every word he speaks, riding shotgun next to Dean where they speed down a dark Tennessee highway.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question hits Dean in the chest like an arrow, and he glances over at Sam’s relaxed, tipsy smile. He looks at Sam under silence for as long as he dares, before he turns his head back to the road.

“Once,” he says, levelly.

Sam’s voice is a little rough from the whiskey. “When did it pass?”

Dean’s knuckles go white around steering wheel.

“It didn’t.”

When they put the state border behind them a few hours later, none of them has said another word.  

* 

Sam feels the bourbon warm his entire insides. _The bourbon_ , he assures himself, and not Dean’s eyes flickering over to him every now and then as they speed down the highway through the pitch-black night.

He doesn’t know why he asks Dean, and when Dean says ‘once’, with his eyes on the road, Sam feels like _killing_ something.

“When did it pass?” Sam asks, cursing the almost possessively hissing notes that seems to worm into his voice.

Dean becomes tense next to him; his shoulders draws up, as if he’s in a fight or flight mood. Sam waits.

“It didn’t,” Dean finally says, unwillingly, as though he wants the answer to be something different.

Sam feels his stomach churn, and he spends the following hours fighting the overpowering jealousy that makes his hands _tremble_.

*

They’re still in the car when it’s two am, and Dean’s given up on trying to find a motel for the night. He feels the fatigue in his _bones_ , and as he pulls over, he speaks for the first time in hours.

“We gotta sleep in the car, I need some eyeshut.”

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, me too.”

The silence that stretches between them again as Sam settles in the backseat, and Dean in the front, is much more profound without the engine running; without the soft roaring of the car speeding through the night.

Dean can hear Sam’s soft breathing in the backseat, steady and calm. He’s almost fallen asleep when Sam asks a question into the night that makes Dean’s entire insides freeze and his eyes screw shut tightly.  

“Who is it?”

Dean is too tired, _of everything_ , to pretend like he doesn’t know what Sam means. He just begs, quietly, “Sam, don’t.”

“Come on, who is it you’re still in love with?” Sam sounds annoyed, and it _tears_ at something inside Dean; it tears at the carefully constructed barrier he’s had many years to build within himself to keep the truth from clawing its way out of his mouth and ruin _everything_.

“I said fucking _don’t_ ,” Dean snarls as he gets out from the impala, slamming the car door shut.

His heart pounds like he’s run for miles, and he feels everything spiral out of control when Sam follows him out of the car.

“What the hell is going on, Dean?” Sam half-shouts, his arms exasperated in the air. “Why can’t you just _tell_ me?”

And just like that, in the middle of nowhere, Dean’s neat barrier crumbles.

He lounges himself at Sam and fists the collar of his jacket as he pushes them both up against the side of the car. “I can’t tell you because he wore a castoff Led Zep tee,” Dean growls slowly, “And he’d just wasted his first vamp, and he fucking _glowed_. Because I fell in love with him in the backseat of this damn car when I was eighteen years old, and ever since that day, I’ve hated myself.”

Something drops from Sam’s face; the annoyance fades from his moonlit face and is replaced with a look of something Dean is too terrified to define, and his chest aches.

Sam’s fingers dig into Dean’s upper arms, and for a moment, everything is perfectly still. The faint rustling of the wind through the forest surrounding the highway seems to falter, and even the soft breeze around them settles.

Dean can only assume it’s the calm before the storm, and he closes his eyes.

He waits for his world to end.  

“Dean,” Sam whispers, “Look at me.”

Sam’s eyes are shiny, and his hand is very warm when he gently cups Dean’s face. “Dean,” he whispers again. “Dean, _me too_.”

“Don’t you do that,” Dean begs, his throat thick with distress. “Even if you hate me, please, don’t do that.”

Sam’s fingers gently curl behind his nape, and suddenly Dean can feel Sam’s breath against his mouth; damp and hot. “I was so jealous,” Sam breathes. “When you told me. That you were in love. I felt like I needed to _kill_ them, Dean I swear, I was gonna do it. I love you, I’ve _always_ loved you.”

Dean gasps softly, because a strong arm encircles his waist and he’s suddenly flush against Sam, who’s warm and lovely under Dean’s palms.

“Please,” Dean begs. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for; but when Sam kisses him, he knows.

He asked for this, for Sam’s hot lips against his; for their keening noises mingling together as they kiss up against the car, for Sam’s arms around him.

Dean feels Sam’s heart race beneath his fingertips, and he thinks, _perhaps my world doesn’t end like this_.

Perhaps, this is how it starts.


	93. WIP

“Where’s Dean?”

“In the shower,” John said distractedly, eyes glued to the book. “He’s meeting a girl later.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t particularly care that his tone was heavy with annoyance when he shortly demanded: “What girl?”

“Alicia, Amanda, something,” John mumbled, making a note in his journal.

Sam left the motel without another word.

John didn’t notice.

It was close to dusk when Dean returned later that night to the motel room only forty-five minutes after he’d left it, slamming the door shut. He looked disappointed, and Sam blinked at him from the couch, eyes wide and innocent.  

“What happened?” he asked.

“She was a no-show,” Dean grumbled as he kicked his boots off. “Forth girl to ditch me this past month, I don’t _get it_.”

Sam got up from the couch and walked over to Dean. “Forget about them,” he said, lightly. “Watch a movie with me?”

Dean smiled. He slung his arm around Sam’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he said, steering them back towards the couch. “I’ll always have you, ain’t that right, Sammy?”

Sam looked at him softly. “ _Always_.”

He hoped Dean couldn’t smell the chlorine on his hands.


	94. WIP

Dean has Sam pinned against the lockers in the empty hallway. Sam cradles his books against his chest, _such a damsel,_ as he stares incredulously up into Dean’s smirking face. “Not _here_ , Dean!” Sam hisses. “It’s in the middle of the school, and I’m already late.”

Dean can’t resist.

He kisses Sam, who doesn’t know how to object when Dean bites his lip, licks the inside of his mouth just like _that_ , and places his hands there, and ohfuck, _there_.  

Sam whines into Dean’s mouth, rubs himself against Dean’s thigh, and Dean can feel his little brother come apart in his arms. He breaks the kiss, leaves Sam with a soft little kitten lick to his upper lip, and backs away.

Sam looks delicious; rosy and kiss-swollen and utterly betrayed. “Dean,” he whispers angrily, “You _can’t_ leave me like this!”

Dean just laughs. “But we’re in school, Sammy,” he says, slyly. “ _And you’re already late_.”

Sam narrows his eyes at him. “Fuck you,” he mutters.

Dean looks smug. “Later, baby boy,” he assures Sam, who storms off with one final glare at Dean.

When Dean gets into the impala, John asks: “Isn’t Sam coming?”

Dean looks out the window, and bites back a smirk. “Oh, he’s coming,” he murmurs. “Later.”


	95. WIP

“So - what did you do? When you thought I was dead. What did you do?”

When Dean looks over at Sam, he must fight the impulse to reach out and touch Sam’s cheek to make sure he’s safe and _alive_. For a second, he almost tells him the truth.

_I killed myself._

Then he thinks about the all the shit that Sam carries around; all the pain and sorrow and goddamn _guilt_ , and he realizes that he can’t.

“I knew you weren’t,” Dean lies.

He gives in and reaches out, and when he feels Sam’s skin beneath his fingertips; warm and lovely, he thinks:

_And for you, I’d do it again._


	96. WIP

Sam has always felt like the night.

He fears himself like he fears darkness - he never knows what he might find if he truly _searches_ ; he feels like the depth of his soul is like the darkness of the night – it might hide something terrifying.

It’s when the first rays of sunshine pours into their motel room through the windows to bathe them in a soft golden blush that Dean, warm and sleepy, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck and nuzzles the spot beneath Sam’s ear.

Yes, Sam thinks, _he might be the night_ ; full of darkness and things he’s too afraid to face - but Dean is the day that bathes him in light, the day that drags the night from its shadows and lights up every dark and doubtful corner with ease.  

When Sam gently kisses Dean’s forehead, he thinks that together, they make one hell of a sunrise.

 


	97. WIP

It’s normal for them, these days, to allow their fingers to twine when they’re in public. It finally comes naturally, after all these years of hiding, to give each other a small kiss in the line at the gas station; to ask for a king sized bed without blinking.

 _It’s just_.

It’s just that sometimes, Sam can’t help hearing the whispers behind them. The dirty looks they’re thrown in bars, when a rosy cheeked Sam places a peck on Dean’s cheek. Sam feels their disapproval in his _bones_ , and for someone like Sam who’s spent his life yearning for normalcy but never conquered it, it _hurts_.

That’s when Dean turns to Sam and places one hand at Sam’s neck. It feels warm and safe when Dean pulls Sam’s face down, fiercely protective, and whispers: “Don’t listen to them. I’ve got you, Sammy. We’re good, OK? I love you.”

Sam kisses Dean. It feels so simple, so lovely; and Sam thinks, _Perhaps normalcy is subjective._


	98. WIP

Sam’s waist is slim and warm under Dean’s palm, and Sam whines prettily when Dean rubs his hard cock against the small of Sam’s back. Dean’s fingers wrap around Sam’s throat, and Dean laughs softly against the shell of Sam’s ear. “Do you enjoy having to share a bed with big brother, Sammy?”

Sam’s fingernails dig into Dean’s thighs when he whispers into the dark room: “Who do you think told dad this was the only available room they had?”


	99. WIP

“Get them nice and wet little brother,” Dean demands in a damp whisper against Sam’s ear as he shoves his fingers into Sam’s mouth. “Cause this is all the prep you’re getting.”

Sam moans around his brother’s fingers and makes sure to soak them, because John might be back any minute.

What they don’t know, is that John’s already back.

However, motel room doors are thin and hearts don’t make any noise when they break.

John drinks his whiskey in the lobby. He finishes it off methodically, like meds.

When he’s got the liquid courage to return, the room smells like sex.

John falls asleep dreaming of Mary’s forgiveness.


	100. WIP

Sam asks for just three words when Dean begs him not to leave for Stanford, but Dean -

He can’t.

Four years later, Sam dies in his arms, and Dean’s mouth tastes of rainwater and regret when he whispers into Sam’s hair: “I love you.”

Sam grows cold in Dean’s arms.

Dean lowers him to the bed, not knowing if Sam had heard him.

 


	101. WIP

Dean is pale, and he stares at Sam with a terrified expression all over his face. “I don’t understand,” he says, his voice thick with distress, “I thought we – I thought you felt the _same_!”

Sam flinches before he snaps: “I don’t! I, _this_ , what we have – it’s too fucking messed up, Dean, don’t you get that? I never wanted things to go this far between us, it needs to stop.”

Dean’s eyes are wide and glittering in the harsh lightning of the motel room. “God,” he whispers, “God, I’m so sorry Sammy. I never meant to – I thought. All those things you said, I thought you wanted this. We can stop, of course we can stop, but Sammy, please don’t _leave_!”

“I want to,” Sam tells him dispassionately. “I need. I need to get away from you, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes are brimming with tears when he takes a step towards Sam. “Please,” he begs. “Sammy.”

“Don’t,” Sam says, his voice all ice, “Come near me.”

Sam leaves Dean alone beneath the ugly florescent light of the motel room.

When he reaches the parking lot, John is there; leaning against the impala. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he regards Sam with a blank expression.

“Did you do as I say?” John asks shortly. “Did you end it?”

Sam’s face is wet with tears. “Yeah,” he confirms, his chest thick and aching with guilt. “Just please dad, _please don’t punish him_.”

John’s face is dark. “I won’t,” he says stonily. “If you leave.”

Sam closes his eyes, feels his heart break, and nods.


	102. WIP

“Are you happy with me, Sam?”

Sam lifted his head to stare.

Dean glared intently down at the tablecloth; the tense line of his mouth an indication that he hadn’t planned to ask.

Sam thought of sunny California, of Stanford and of Jess; of waking up from nightmares and not telling her about them because he didn’t want to scare her. He thought of suits and mortgages, of dinner parties and golfing. He thought of the life that got away, and just like that he knew: _I would have left it in the end, anyway._

Sam thought of furious kisses up against the impala, of stiff necks in the morning from sleeping together in a narrow motel bed: he thought of the way Dean throws his head back when he laughs and of green, warm eyes in the morning light. He thought of the amulet around Dean’s neck, and about how sorry he was that Dean felt the need to _ask_.

Sam gripped Dean’s wrist across the table.

“You know,” he told Dean conversationally, “If you weren’t so against to the idea of a little PDA every now and then, I would reach over the table and kiss your stupid face right now. Jerk.”

Dean blushed prettily and he smiled softly into his coffee mug when he murmured: “Bitch.”

Sam held on.  

 


	103. WIP

The thing was that Sam, Dean knew, was perfectly _lethal_.

Dean would know: he’d raised him to be.

Those wide, earnest eyes never missed a thing; Sam knew the _second_ someone’s guard dropped - and that’s when he would strike.

Dean had bought Sam his first knife when he was eleven.

Sam’s fingertips had been feathery light over the blade, his eyes calm and dark. “Won’t you need a knife, too?”

“Nah baby boy,” Dean had told him a little breathlessly. “I just wanna watch you.”


	104. WIP

Little Sammy is screaming with laughter and he pushes at his big brother who’s pinning him to the bed, tickling him mercilessly. “Dean, _please_ _stop_!” Sam yelps, his cheeks bright red: breathless and bright eyed.

John watches from the door, smiling.

Little does John know that in ten years he will find his boys on another bed, in another state. Sam’s cheeks will still be flushed and he will still be breathless – but this time, Sammy will claw at Dean’s back and whine: “ _Dean, please don’t stop_.”

And John won’t be smiling.


	105. WIP

_Fayetteville, Arkansas, August 25th, 2001_

Dean woke up to a note that said:

_Dad found a case. He won’t be back for a couple of days. See you tonight. -S_

Dean put on his best shirt and sprayed on a little of the cologne he’d bought a few states back. He even combed his hair a little to the side like he’d done one time when Sam had threaded his fingers through Dean’s hair and told him in a whisper against his lips, “ _You look nice_.”  

When Sam walked through the door his stomach dropped at the sight of Dean: prettied up and smiling softly, Sam could even smell a homecooked dinner from their crappy motel pantry.

Sam closed his eyes, because Dean looked at him like _that_ ; like Sam had hung the moon.

“Hiya Sammy,” Dean said in that warm voice he only ever used when they were alone.

The Stanford acceptance letter burned in Sam’s pocket and he wanted to cry, because Dean didn’t know yet that he was going to eat the dinner alone.


	106. WIP

Dean shrugs out of his flannel, his voice smooth and relaxed as he talks away about his and dad’s latest case.

Little Sammy isn’t listening, because Dean has long, red marks across his shoulders and his back; too light and thin to be the result of a hunt.

Dean catches Sam looking, and he smirks lazily at him. “Her name’s Katie,” he tells Sam with a wink. “And she was a screamer.”  

Jealousy flares through Sam; so intense that it scares him. “She sounds like a whore,” Sam says without thinking, his voice all ice: Dean’s smirk fades.

After a moment of uncomfortable and surprised silence, Dean says: “Wow Sammy, why don’t you tell me what you really think?” There’s a small touch of concern to his mouth before he gives Sam a puzzled look and disappears into the bathroom.

Sam sinks down to the bed and runs his fingers through his hair. One day soon, he would slip up worse than he already did. One day soon, he might ruin _everything_.

He thinks: _I need to get out._  


	107. WIP

Dean remembers how he’d carried Sam out from the burning house all those years ago, how Sam had been so small and warm against his chest and how Dean had huddled protectively around him as he’d kneeled behind the impala to shield them from their home that had been set aflame.

Dean remembers how he’d murmured against Sam’s baby neck: _“I’ve got you, Sammy.”_

Sam is still warm against his chest, now, but Dean can feel hot, horrible blood pooling in his palm as he desperately clutches Sam closer to him. Sam’s breathing comes in weak puffs against Dean’s ear and Sam grows heavier against him: Sam’s losing the battle and Dean _doesn’t know what to do_.

Dean feels like he’s dying too when he whispers uselessly into Sam’s neck: “I’ve got you Sammy.”


	108. WIP

Sam is eight when he throws his arms around Dean’s neck and pecks him right on the mouth, beaming up against his _larger than life sunshine bright_ big brother.

John grasps Sam by the T-shirt, pulls him away from Dean, and barks: “That’s not something you do to your _brother_ , Sam.”

Sam looks at John, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling. “But I love him, daddy,” little Sammy says quietly, trying to crawl back onto Dean’s lap.

John separates them again, rougher this time. “Not like that, you don’t,” John snarls, before he snatches a bottle of Jack from the table and storms off.

*

Sam is eighteen when John, after ten long years of Jack, denial and sorrowful rage, drags Sam out to the parking lot. John shoves Sam’s acceptance letter against his chest as he speaks, slowly and menacingly. “You’re going to California, Sam. Go to California, or so help me I will find another way to keep you from him. _You_ _understand me, son_?”

Sam’s eyes glitter beneath fluorescent light with unshed, furious tears. He swallows, then he says, “I love him,” and his voice breaks under John’s sickened glare. “Dad,” Sam begs as his head drops. “Dad, please don’t make me leave him.”

John’s face turns ashen, bile rising in his throat. “The way you love him ain’t right, Sammy. Never was.”


	109. WIP

Demon blood drips from Sam’s lips and chin, the look on his face is not of this world and it scares Dean, Sam doesn’t even look human anymore: he strikes Dean as a demonic, twisted version of himself. Sam’s head has a birdlike tilt to it, like he might be using senses Dean doesn’t even know exist.

“What do you want?” Sam snarls, defensive and cruel, eyes narrowing.

Dean’s throat aches and he touches Sam’s scowling cheek. “Just my brother. Sam, I’m right here.” His voice rasps in his throat. Sam is beneath his fingertips but so far away, and Dean can’t breathe. “Let me have him,” he says, and it’s a plea.

Sam’s eyes are blackened and he doesn’t recoil: he smiles, like it’s worth it. “Here he is,” he murmurs softly, and Dean’s chest grows cold. “The world’s on fire,” Sam whispers against Dean’s ear. “Aren’t you proud, big brother?”


	110. WIP

“Oh my god,” Dean exclaimed, horrified, “You can’t just suggest that we set the entire house on fire, _there are children in there,_ you monster!”

“I may be soulless,” Sam drawled coolly, “But I don’t understand why you have to be so rude about it. I’m _trying_ here, Dean.”

Dean glared up into Sam’s smoothly arrogant face. “Well, try harder,” he advised grumpily. “ _Much harder_. If your next plan is anywhere near setting kids on fire, I’m tying you up.”

“Yeah, cause that worked out so well for you the last time.”

“I - I’ll get the hang of it one day,” Dean muttered.  

Sam leant against the doorframe of their motel kitchen and crossed his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyes at Dean, and asked, like it was any of his business: “When was the last time you had sex?”

Dean made a spluttering noise of indignance. “Excuse me?!”

Sam’s sudden smirk was upsettingly wolfish. “I said, when was the last time-“

“I heard you!” Dean wailed, gripping the counter behind him, wondering when exactly his life had come to this. “And I feel like it’s my duty to inform you, you soulless freak, that that’s highly private, and you asking me that is completely inappropriate.”

Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean like one might look at a kitten that tried very hard to climb a particularly tricky piece of furniture: knowing it would fail, but was rather charmed by the attempt.

Dean’s knuckles went white as he gripped the counter tighter, and Sam pushed himself leisurely away from the doorframe and began striding towards Dean, and Dean thought wildly that it was unfair that apparently when you lose your soul, it gets replaced by an aura of a kind of ruggedly raw sexual appeal.

“You seem so tense, Dean,” Sam practically purred, Dean’s name rolling off his tongue like he’d said something filthy. “How about we try to get you to _loosen up_?”

Dean made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper as Sam put his hands on either side of Dean, trapping him against the counter. Sam’s eyes were cold like they had been since he came back, but there was a flicker of _want_ in them that made Dean’s breath hitch a little in his throat. “How about we stop this, because it’s absolutely insane, even by our standards?” Dean mumbled, swallowing as Sam’s long, warm fingers curled softly around his neck.

Sam’s whisper was warm against his face when he asked: “Wouldn’t Sam go after what he wanted?”

Dean tried to keep his breathing somewhat under control but it was difficult, because Sam’s thigh pressed against him and he was warm and strong against Dean, who shivered a little under Sam’s touch. ”I’m sure he would,” Dean said weakly, “He’d do it _very soulfully_.”

“And I’m doing it like this,” Sam said, still smirking, before leaning down and pressing his lips to Dean’s. Dean threw his arms around Sam’s neck, opened his mouth under Sam’s, and kissed his sanity goodbye.

 


	111. WIP

Lisa knows what she is to Dean. She’s the suburban sanctuary that had been taken away from him as a child, she’s the pretty-faced alibi who offers homecooked meals and a warm body to curl up to at night; she’s the family he fools himself that he wants.

Lisa knows that Dean doesn’t love her.

She feels it in the way he reacts to her touch, the way he grows tense with resistance for the fraction of a second before he makes himself relax and offer her an easy smile that makes her believe, for a wonderful second, that he might be hers. She feels it in the way he doesn’t look at her when she puts out the light at night and crawls on top of him; in the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes over the breakfast table.

She feels in her _bones_ when he becomes vibrant with hope or despair or a bittersweet mixture of both when Sam walks back into his life, tall and beautiful and still with Dean wrapped around his finger.

Lisa can only watch, helplessly, as Dean drops it all: the life they built, coffee mornings and safety and a kid that might be his but it isn’t, but _might’ve been_ and Lisa wants to scream from the unfairness of it all, of what they almost had but will never have because Sam is back: taking from her what she only ever borrowed from him.


	112. WIP

“He’s cute, isn’t he? In that, you know. That kind of devil-may-care kind of way.”

Ellen keeps polishing the glass like nothing has changed, but everything has, because Jo’s voice is everything Ellen’s been afraid of: besotted and a little dreamy, _those green eyes sure did a number on her_.  

Ellen tells her daughter in measured tones: “Cute ain’t something you can build on, sweetheart.”

Jo grows sharp across the bar top; her gaze dark and unyielding. “You don’t like him.”

It’s not a question, _thank God_ , because Ellen wouldn’t know what to answer.

She doesn’t know how to tell her smitten golden daughter that the sunny, damaged boy she’s fallen for is already madly in love with someone else. She doesn’t know how to put words to the things she’s seen the Winchester boys do in the dark, the things she’s heard them whisper to each other at night when the lights were all out. She doesn’t know how to ask _: Did you not see him, honey? Did you not see how there’s no room for anyone but his baby-brother, god bless their poor souls, in those devil-may-care eyes of his? Are you that over the moon?_

Ellen puts the glass down, a little too hard, and Jo’s eyes narrow.

“Do yourself a favor, darlin’,” Ellen murmurs. “Give your heart to someone else.”


	113. WIP

Sam falls into the pit and plummets to the depths of hell and Dean feels his heart going down with him.  

Dean reaches instinctively for the amulet around his neck, and just like that, Dean’s bones grow heavy with loneliness and regret because he finds nothing but bare skin.

He’d thrown it away in a trashcan, like dirt.

Dean’s fingers are cool against his neck when the tears fall, and he prays for another apocalypse: _his world is gone now, anyway_.  

 


	114. WIP

_Dean,_

_I want you to know that I never wanted to leave you like that. I know I hurt you, I saw it on your face, and all I wanted was to walk over there and kiss you and tell you that it’s not you that I’m leaving, wanted to tell you how sorry I am for not telling you sooner that I was going away. I tried so many times to tell you but I couldn’t -  couldn’t look at you when you looked at me like that, like you always do, and tell you that I’m walking away. Dean, I couldn’t._

_I’m at Stanford, and my bed is cold and awful. I need to live my life, but I don’t want to do it without you. Please Dean, come here._

_Always yours, Sammy_

John’s fist curls around the letter, his knuckles go white around the thing as the color drains from his face: all his nightmarish suspicions confirmed.

“Dad? Who’s the letter from?”

Dean looks at him from the door opening, and the practiced nonchalance in Dean’s slouch and the poorly stifled hopefulness suddenly makes a horrible sense to John, who might be sick on the floor. 

He rips the letter into little pieces, and says tightly: “A case. Wyoming. We leave in thirty minutes.”

 


	115. WIP

“You’re hard, baby,” Dean murmurs against Sammy’s ear. His fingers are indecent and possessive all over Sam’s denim clad cock, and Sam arches up into his big brother’s touch, his eyes closed.

“Dean,” he whines, drawing Dean’s name out like a spoiled brat, his fourteen-year-old voice pouring filthily in the backseat; his bottom lip cherry red and glistening with spit from Dean’s kisses. “Not here, daddy could see us.”

Dean’s eyes are dark, his mouth curling a little as he watches Sam’s dark eyelashes fanned across his flushed cheeks. “ _Daddy_ likes what he sees, baby boy,” he whispers, and that’s when Sam’s eyes draw open, pupils blown wide.

Dean can feel Sam’s come _through his jeans_ , and he can’t swallow his own groan. 


	116. WIP

The sun was beating down their necks and the Alabama lake lay blue and calm under their gazes where they sat by the shore, leaning against the Impala. Dean felt happy and exhausted to his bones with Sam warm and safe next to him, his shoulder strong and solid against Dean’s.

“You know, for a second back there I wasn’t sure I was gonna make it,” Sam told him. “You did good.”

Dean thought of sharp fangs inches from Sam’s throat, and the barely-there sound of his sharp blade singing through the air before he’d cut off the head of that vampire. He thought of Sam’s face in that crypt: pale and on edge. He’d been scared.  

Dean’s eyes didn’t leave the lake when he said: “Wasn’t gonna let anything happen to my little brother.”

Sam’s fingers were sun-warm and calloused when they threaded through Dean’s. Sam’s head came to rest to Dean’s shoulder, his voice drowsy and pleased when he murmured against Dean’s neck: “I know.”

The angle was awkward and Dean’s bones were aching but he still kissed Sam then, slow and properly, until they both felt like molasses beneath the sun: weak and strong all at once.

And the sun kept on beating down.


	117. WIP

Dean only flirts with girls because he knows how much it riles Sam up, _and oh god,_ does Dean love Sammy like this: possessive and rough and _dangerous_ as he slams Dean up against the nearest wall, Sam’s voice a little bit of ice and a little bit of fire when he snarls against his ear: “You’re gonna feel me for _days_ after tonight, Dean. _Slut_.”

Dean licks his lips and cocks his neck, gazes into Sam’s smoothly arrogant face through hooded eyes. “I’m counting on it,” he drawls.

Sam’s kiss tastes like blood, and Dean wonders: _What else would his brother taste like?_


	118. WIP

Jimmy Page’s devil licks are heavy and sultry as the Led Zep’s third LP spins. There’s a waxy candle in the window faintly lighting up the November North Dakota darkness outside with its yellowish, dirty glow.

Sammy’s been drinking smoky whiskey from Dean’s mouth for hours, his tongue growing bolder and filthier as he straddles his big brother’s lap, bony elbows resting on top of Dean’s shoulders as he whispers his ear: “Make me scream.”

Dean’s gaze is hooded and dark, his mouth a mean line against Sam’s throat. “Try again, baby boy,” he says, his tongue flicking against Sammy’s earlobe.

Sam mewls above him: “Please make me scream, _daddy_.”

And Dean does. Right there, on the filthy motel couch.

 


	119. WIP

Dean drops to his knees, though it isn’t Dean’s pink lips that make Sam’s cock swell, not really: it’s the eyes – so obedient and full of worship; those flashes of bright green blinking up at Sam.

“Please, let me? I’ll be so good to you,” Dean begs, as he digs his fingers into Sam’s thighs, _honest to God begs for his little brother’s cock in his mouth_ , and Sam’s fingers curl at his nape.

“Go ahead big brother,” Sam says throatily. “Convince me to stay.”

Sam knows he won’t. 

But Dean is just so, _so pretty_ when he’s desperate.


	120. WIP

Little Sammy’s only fourteen, but the way his big brother falls apart for him makes him feel like he has eons after eons of ancient power; all it takes is a little sweep of his sooty eyelashes from beneath his dark bangs and Dean is worshipping him; treats him like a prince, like a _king_.

*

Dean whispers stories into his ear as he fucks him through the dark nights: stories of the boy who would be king, stories of power and glory and violence, and when Sam wakes up he’s exhilarated and sore and _thrumming_ with something undefinable; he feels something rise inside of him.

*

Sam claws at Dean’s back when he comes, and he’s shaking when he whispers against Dean’s damp throat: “Tell me the story again. About the boy.”

Dean’s eyes are almost black in the night, wide and proud. “No baby boy,” he tells Sam in a voice that has so many layers it makes Sam go dizzy. “You’ll tell it yourself. Soon.”

Sam falls asleep in Dean’s protective arms. He dreams of fire and echoes, and of Dean: strong and black-eyed, kneeling by a throne.


	121. WIP

“Your _brother_ , Dean?”

Jessica stares incredulously at the boy standing in the middle of her living room occupying Sam’s personal space like it’s his own; like it’s where he belongs.

Dean’s green gaze is a little wicked; his smirk a little tongue-in-cheek.

She feels akin to Dean, in a way that makes her eyes sting and her stomach churn.

Jessica sees how Sam looks at that boy; like he’s an oasis in a desert, and she feels hollow and cheated when she realizes: He never looked at me like that.

Dean looks her up and down like a lion might look at an antelope, _Thanks for keeping him warm for me, sweetheart, I’ll take it from here._

When Sam kisses Jessica’s cheek and tells her, ‘ _I’ll be back by Monday,’_ she feels Sam disappearing through her fingers, like smoke.    

 


	122. WIP

Sam is vibrant with fury, and so fucking _beautiful_ in the moonlight. Dean shoves his fists deeper into his pockets to keep from reaching for him.

“What the hell do you want from me, Dean?” Sam’s eyes are dark and livid, and Dean tries very hard to not flinch at the resentment in that gaze: Sam looks like he hates him.

Dean stares down to the wet asphalt. He says nothing, because he can’t tell Sam what he wants from him. He can’t tell him that what he wants is for Sam to feel this too. He can’t tell him how much he hates being alone in this. He wants to close the distance between them and push Sam up against the car; wants to tangle his fingers in that pretty college boy hair and kiss that angry mouth until it starts to make pretty little noises, wants to breathe in the scent of him, of the boy that has been driving Dean crazy for years.

God, Dean _wants_.

He looks up, and Sam is still looking at him like that: _You did this to me. You made me leave everything I’d built, you made me leave her, she’s dead but it should’ve been you._

Dean wants to tell Sam, _I want you to see, I want you to understand what you’re doing to me, I want you to want me back, I want you to love me wrong, too, so we can make it right. I want you, Sammy_.

Dean doesn’t. Instead he sneers: “I don’t want _anything_ from you, Sam. All I want is to find dad. So spare me your melodrama and get in the fucking car.”


	123. WIP

Dean doesn’t know why he needs it. He doesn’t know why he craves it; _loves it_ when Sam’s fingers curl around his throat and pushes him up against the wall, his teeth bared in a snarl. Doesn’t know why his stomach leaps when Sam glares down at him like _he ain’t worth shit_ , doesn’t know why he moans when Sam’s kiss is more of a punch: painful and sharp.

Dean doesn’t know why he loves being put to his knees where he looks up at Sam through his lashes, doesn’t know why he’s _so_ _fucking_ _hard_ from Sam’s slanted gaze or why the wicked curl of his mouth makes Dean want to arch his back and beg like a bitch.

Sam’s thumb is dry and salty against Dean’s plump bottom lip. “Gonna fuck your mouth, Dean,” Sam tells him quietly. “Gonna make you choke on it.”

Dean opens his mouth ever so obediently, because all he wants is to be used, fucked, _wanted_.

When Sam’s cock slides into his mouth, thick and wet on his tongue, Dean knows -

When Sam tosses his head back and moans, Dean feels it: He feels _alive_.


	124. WIP

Pastor Jim’s voice was very soft and laced with worry when he said: “John, your boys. They are. Well, aren’t they a little too close? I don’t think. I don’t think their relationship is very _healthy_.”

John stared blankly at him.

Of course he knew.

After all, he was the one who had to pretend not to notice when Dean’s hand rested on Sam’s thigh beneath the diner tables; he was the one who had to come home to a motel room and find the boys rosy cheeked and slightly out of breath. He saw the bruised love bites on Sam’s neck; brand new marks even though Sam had barely left the motel for a week.

He was the one who had to fall asleep to the sound of his boys fucking; the muffled noise of Dean telling Sam to be quiet, because dad could be awake.

Oh, John knew.

He knew there were so many things he hadn’t been able to give them; a home, a base, a mother. There had been times when he hadn’t been able to feed them or clothe them properly; and there had been times when he hadn’t even given them a father.

There was one thing, though. One thing he’d given them.

He’d given them each other, and he knew that they carried each other through this miserable life he’d given them; they made each other smile even when they had nothing to smile about; even if they had to go to bed hungry.

John knew, but he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , put out the only light they had in this pitch-black existence he’d thrown them into.

“John?”

John swallowed. “Don’t you worry about my boys, Jim.” he said lowly. “They’re pulling through.”  


	125. WIP

Fifteen-year-old little Sammy is bouncing on his big brother’s cock, wearing nothing but Dean’s leather jacket. Dean’s biting his lip so hard he’s drawing blood _cause he can’t make any noise_ : John’s asleep on the couch next to their armchair, and Sammy’s eyes are hooded and dark, wordlessly promising Dean everything they can’t voice into the moonlit Tennessee motel room and when Dean comes he tastes bourbon on Sam’s lips, and he’s scared of himself when he realizes: _I’m never letting this go_


	126. WIP

Sam’s skin is blotchy and pink, like he’s tried to scrub himself raw. A towel is wrapped around his hips where he sits on his narrow bunker bed, head resting in his hands. His shoulders are trembling, droplets of water rolling down them. Dean pushes the door open without even thinking; Sam’s obvious distress is calling out to him, it’s his most basic instinct – _Sam’s hurting, make it stop._

Dean crouches on the floor in front of his little brother. “Sam? Hey buddy, you OK? Is it the trials?”

Sam looks up, and the pain in the hazel eyes is so piercing and raw that it makes Dean’s gut clench.

Sam looks at him for a short moment before his head drops again and he wraps his arms around himself, making himself smaller; as though he doesn’t feel entitled to the space he’s occupying.

“Sam,” Dean says, softly, “Please. Talk to me.”  

Sam’s voice is heavy with confusion and sorrow when he finally asks: “Why do you still even care about me, Dean?”

Dean reaches out then, wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrists and forces him to look at him. “What the hell are you talking about, Sam? You’re all I’ve got. Now talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Me,” Sam replies hollowly. “Everything about me is wrong.”

Dean’s grip tightens. “Sam.”

“The demon blood. Ruby. Yellow eyes. My damn soul. Not-“ Sam’s face is wet now, and not from the shower – “Not looking for you. I can never redeem myself, not with these damn trials, nothing. Castiel was right. I’m an abomination. I don’t – I don’t deserve to live. And you…” A glimpse of something, admiration or awe, maybe, ghosts over his miserable face for a second. “You deserve so much more than me.”

Dean’s chest aches, his thumbs drag along Sam’s face, wiping at the tears. “You’ve got nothing to prove, least of all to me. I know I’ve said things to you, but know this, little brother: I’ve seen your soul. I’ve seen you. The brightness. God, Sam. You’re…”

Dean leans forward, touching his forehead to Sam’s. “You’re no abomination. You’re good, ok? So fucking good and _beautiful_.”

A sob tears through Sam’s throat then as he allows Dean into his space, his exhale damp and sorrowful against Dean’s face: “I’m so scared I’ll drag you down with me.”

Dean’s hand curl around Sam’s neck. He wants to be close to Sam, to anchor him, and something inside him slides into place as he feels Sam relax and melt against him - it’s like he’s been searching for something in the dark for so long and now the lights has been switched on and he can see plainly what’s been in front of him all along. Dean lets out a helpless sort of laughter before he says, in a voice far more husky then he is prepared for: “Sam, I’d let myself be dragged anywhere with you.”

Sam’s hair falls into Dean’s face; tangles with his lashes. The air seems to set around them, like a calm before a storm. Sam’s palm is large and hot against Dean’s neck, long fingers ghosting over his collarbone. “That’s what scares me, Dean.”

Dean watches Sam’s face. The tense line of his pursed lips, the lines of guilt creasing around his eyes. The thirst in his eyes. And just like that, Dean gives in. He leans in, closes that small space between them and touches Sam’s lips with his own.

Sam pushes him away, softly. “Don’t pity me,” he begs, wetness clinging to his lashes.

Dean takes Sam’s hand then, presses it against his chest, Sam’s hand against his bare skin beneath the flannel shirt, letting him feel his heart race beneath his fingertips. “This is not pity, Sam.”

Sam gasps, stares at his mouth, and Dean leans forward again, whispering against Sam’s lips: “I want. Sammy, I want.”

And Sam lets him; his mouth opens beneath Dean’s in the messiest, most wonderful kiss he’s ever had and he can’t help the whimper that escapes him. Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, and as Dean’s warm, pliant body settles over his, Sam finally learns about forgiveness and redemption.


	127. WIP

Sam is wrapped around Dean, draped over every inch of him, strong arms around Dean’s waist as the sheer weight of him presses them into the mattress. Sam’s long hair tickles Dean’s damp temple, his breath hot and thrumming with promise against Dean’s ear as his fingers plays with Dean’s nipple, pulling a needy whimper from his throat.

Sam has been teasing him for hours. Pushing Dean almost over the edge all morning, with his clever fingers, with his traitorous tongue. And now, the head of Sam’s enormous cock is pressing against the stretched rim of Dean’s spit-soaked hole, dripping with pre-come. Dean gasps as he presses back against his brother, whining shamelessly because he is too far gone to care.

“Please, Sam,” he begs, arching his back, a shiver tearing through him as Sam’s tongue laps at his neck, his earlobe. “I can’t take this anymore, I need you to – fuck, please, Sam…”

“So fucking beautiful like this, Dean,” Sam rasps against his throat, his hand travelling down to Dean’s weeping cock, hard against his stomach. Sam doesn’t stroke it, his fingertips barely ghosts over the shaft. “You know how much I love when you get like this? So desperate for my cock, you’re fucking _shaking_.”

Sam’s cock slides between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, and Dean can stop the sob as he scrambles against the mattress, claws at the sheets, digs his nails into Sam’s meaty thigh – he simply can’t take it anymore because he needs to feel Sam slide into him _nownownow_ or he feels like he might die from it.

Sam’s voice is like steam against his ear when he whispers, “You’re crying, big brother.”

And Dean realizes that he is, his face is wet with tears of frustration leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“Why are you crying, baby?” Sam coos, and Dean manages through his lust filled haze to marvel at the control in Sam’s voice, the levelled coolness of his little brother – it scares Dean almost as much as it turns him on.

“Crying from embarrassment, maybe? Huh? Is that it? Are you embarrassed about how much you want your baby brother’s cock to fuck you open, pound that spot that makes you cream yourself?”

“What do you want me to do, Sam?” Dean moans, rubbing his ass against Sam’s dripping cock desperately, “What do I have to do to make you fuck me?”

“Tell me,” Sam whispers. “Tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” Dean replies without hesitation, “I’m yours.”

The length of Sam’s body is impossibly hot and damp against Dean’s, curled around him like a cocoon, like shelter, possession and protection. Sam’s long fingers curls around Dean’s cock, and Dean’s body hums with the pleasure ripping through him.

“And who owns this cock?” Sam mumbles at the corner of Dean’s mouth, placing small kitten licks at his lips as he strokes Dean’s cock firmly.

“You do, Sam, you do, it’s yours, all of me is, it’s all yours!” Dean babbles, vision swimming, his hole twitching with the need to be filled.

Then finally; finally, and now Dean is aware of the tears streaming down his face, from relief this time, because he feels the head of Sam’s cock pressing into him, filling him up, and Dean can’t help the noises that he’s making. Sam grabs one of Dean’s legs and holds it up, angles his hips and _thrusts_ and the burn and the stretch is too much, too good, too blinding, and Dean thinks he might pass out from it.

“Yess,” Dean hisses, as Sam begins to pound into him, hard and deep. “Thank you,” Dean moans or sobs, he doesn’t know, all he knows is that this is what he lives for, these moments, when Sam is inside him. His Sam, his brother, the air Dean breathes, his reason to pull through his miserable existence, the brightest light in Dean’s compact darkness.

This is what he lives for.

He lives _for_ Sam, he lives _because_ of Sam, or _thanks_ to Sam, and Sam’s all Dean needs.

“You were made for this,” Sam growls, his fingers white with force around Dean’s thigh, “Made to take my cock, Dean, you take it so good. So slick and open for me, you have no idea what you fucking do to me, big brother. You gonna come on my cock, you hear me?”

Dean nods, desperately, one hand reaching back and grasping Sam’s hair, pulling their lips together. Sam’s mouth is warm and wet against his, panting and pouring out filthy words that will have him blushing later and all Dean can do is to hang on and take it because Sam is going for it now, his thrusts hard and unforgiving. Sam’s cock is hitting Dean’s sweet spot with every single thrust and Dean feels his orgasm rise in his gut, in his _bones,_ and he knows Sam can tell.

“Come for me, Dean,” Sam mumbles against his lips, the request low, he sounds like sex over fucking broken glass, and just like that Dean comes. The orgasm rips through him mercilessly, his entire body going taut as he comes all over them.

Dean collapses, boneless, as he lets Sam continue to fuck him, because Sam hasn’t come yet, Sam will keep this up, Sam will bring Dean to the edge again with his cock alone.

And Dean will take it. He will take everything Sam will give him.


	128. WIP

It should have been Sam.

John hates himself for feeling it. He hates himself for years for feeling it, before he even allows the thought to form properly in his head. Once he does, he can’t let go of that thought.

It should have been _Sam_ who burned that night.

John knows about the demon blood, about the liquid evil that trickled down Sam’s throat and he thinks he can see it sometimes: ever present, like a dark torch in Sam’s eyes.

John knows Dean believes John’s playing favorite with Sam. Oh God, if Dean only knew why John tried so hard to keep Sam from the things they hunt. John can’t tell Dean, bright and wonderful Dean, how John fears the day Sam is introduced to violence and darkness.

John can’t tell Dean how scared he is that the little brother Dean adores so much will realize just how _akin_ he is to the things they hunt.

*

When Sam turns sixteen, it dawns on John just how deep Dean’s adoration of the devil boy runs. Sam is all long legs and the looks he throws his big brother from beneath dark bangs make John’s blood run cold. John wants to _weep_ when Dean’s clear eyes go wide as Sam’s lips gleam with saliva and he works the lollipop between his cherry lips: obscenely and shamelessly, in the backseat of the impala.

John wants to pull over and throw up. Instead, he pulls over and barks at Dean to come sit in the front seat. Dean asks why, distractedly, a slight flush creeping up along his neck, still watching Sam.

“Because you need to read the map,” John growls, knuckles white around the steer wheel.

Sam watches John the rest of the drive: eyes cool and callous, from Dallas to Memphis.  

*

John looks at Dean, out like candle on the couch. The hunt they’d just finished had really done a number on him.

Sam follows John’s gaze, and says around a giggle: “You think he’s pretty, too.”

John stiffens, because the insinuation is thick and sticky and _disgusting_ , and he wants to throttle Sam in his sleep. “Go to bed, Sam.”

Sam tsks softly and saunters over to the couch, reaches out and touches Dean’s cheek softly. Dean makes a little noise of content, leaning into Sam’s touch even in his sleep. Sam looks down at him fondly. “He makes the prettiest noises,” Sam tells John in a hushed voice, like he’s giving away a big secret.

“Sam,” John begs, but he doesn’t know for what. “Don’t.”

Sam looks like victory. “You’re just like me, dad.”

John’s face grows pallid. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Yes, you are. Only older. Meaner. Won’t let me sleep in Dean’s bed anymore.”

“It’s not-“

“Normal?” Sam interrupts, a touch of cruelty to his mouth. “Oh daddy,” he drawls, “We’re looking at _normal_ in the rearview mirror, aren’t we? You made sure of that. Normalcy was left at the sidewalk ever since you put me and Dean in the backseat of the Impala and drove off into the darkness all those years ago. Honestly, _John_.” Sam’s laughter is low, a soft sound of mirth and spite and it sends chills down John’s spine. “What did you expect?”

John stares at Sam.

He hadn’t expected a son that would terrify him more than any monster he’d ever come across.

But here he was, staring at a boy who should have been left to the flames all those years ago.

And John watches Dean; John’s entire world, smiling in his sleep still beneath Sam’s fingertips.


	129. WIP

“You can’t,” Bobby says flatly, looking at John’s face, all pinched and dark. “You can’t split them up. You can tell ‘em off, you can punish them but John, _you can’t split them up_.”

John’s stare is stony. “It’s Sam. I’m sure of it. The way he talks, and looks at Dean, and, _fuck!_ -“ John swears into his whiskey and slams his fist against the bar top. “The things he makes Dean agree to, it _ain’t right_. You’ve seen them. You know what I mean, Bobby. Sam needs to go. Dean wouldn’t… Not if he wasn’t being manipulated. Never Dean.”

Bobby watches John’s defeated slouch and pained gaze, and thinks: _I can’t tell him_.

Can’t tell John how this is his own doing. Can’t tell him that somewhere along the long road of asphalt, blood and motel rooms, his boys simply fell in love. 

Bobby can’t tell John how many times he’s overheard the boys whisper sweet nothings to each other in the darkness, heard the hurried gasps beneath old blankets during the nights John had been too buried in blood and vengeance that he’d failed to notice what his boys were becoming.

Bobby can’t tell John that Dean isn’t the victim; can’t tell him that Dean’s utter devotion to Sam runs far deeper than the beckoning sweeps of Sammy’s sooty eyelashes, because John needs something pure to hold onto: He needs Dean to be the golden soldier led astray, and he needs Sam to be what he’s always been; _the boy with the demon blood._

“You’re making a mistake,” Bobby tells John grimly. “And the boys will be the ones to pay.”

_Like they always have_.

 


	130. WIP

Dean can feel Sam’s possessive stare at the back of his neck.

He knows why, of course.

Adam’s lips are plump and pink just likes Dean likes it; he’s all doe-eyed and innocent, just like Sam was when they first crossed _that_ _line_ ten years ago.

“I see the way you look at him, Dean,” Sam says warningly, trapping Dean against the wall. “And I don’t like it.”

Dean smirks. “Jealous, Sammy? Come on, don’t be like that,” he practically purrs. “You know my type.”

Sam’s eyes narrows. “Pretty little brothers?”

Dean tsks softly, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck. “Tall, dark and handsome,” he whispers against Sam’s lips, pulling him into a kiss.


	131. WIP

John stopped praying to God years ago. He stopped begging for answers and strength; for redemption and forgiveness. All he does now is gritting his teeth as he swallows the cheapest whiskey he can find. He kills everything that comes in his way; all the while pretending not to see the darkness in his youngest boy’s eyes and the adoration in his firstborn’s.

John stopped praying to God the night he first heard little long-haired Sammy beg into the darkness for Dean to touch him, _to give in, please Dean I know you want to_. John can still taste the bile rising in the back of his throat when he remembers the soft rustling sound of Dean giving in to that voice; a voice filthy and naughty and wrong in a way only a fourteen-year-old’s could be.

John blames the whiskey for not stopping them that night. He blames the numb sorrow and the way denial clung to his last straws of hope like he clings to the memory of Mary, but it’s been years now, and John can’t remember the sound of her laughter - and their boys, _Mary’s boys_ , are still doing things in the dark that John can’t stop.

John stopped praying, because whatever is going on with his sons has nothing to do with God.

And John’s not ready, just yet, to ask the devil.


	132. WIP

Dean knows that Sam’s traumatized after Mystery Spot, so every Tuesday night he crawls into bed with Sam, wraps his arms around him and mumbles into Sam’s hair: “It’s okay, Sammy. M’not going anywhere, I’m good, I’m here, you hear me?”

Sam says nothing; just clings to Dean and memorizes his scent and the sound of his voice because Sam won’t ever forget what it felt like to have those things slipping through his fingers like smoke.

Dean won’t let go until it’s shifted to Wednesday, and Sam finally relaxes in his arms.


	133. WIP

”Truth or dare?”

Dean knows he can’t lie to that dimpled face.

“Dare,” he says, lazily, as he shifts on the motel floor, staff-lit candles flickering in the windowsill.  

Sam’s eyes have a whiskey-glitter to them when he says, all tongue in cheek - there’s too much Stanford college boy in him, _still_ – “I dare you to kiss me.”

Dean _trembles_. “You mean it?”

Sam’s mouth is suddenly hot and wet against his, the candles still flickers, and Dean thinks: _This feels like truth, anyway._


	134. WIP

“Deean,” little Sammy begs, his voice a damp murmur against Dean’s neck. “Do that thing daddy doesn’t like.”

Dean laughs darkly as he grips Sam’s milky white throat. “You’re filthy, little brother.”

Sam’s fingernails dig into Dean’s shoulders. Licking his lips, he says: “Don’t hold back.”

Dean’s grip around his neck grows tighter.


	135. WIP

Dean changing his shirt a few times in the morning. Dean buying the more expensive skincare products in secret. Dean putting on some cologne before dinner. Dean trying to fix his hair in the impala’s rearview mirror when Sam’s out getting coffee. Dean trying to make himself look good for Sam<3


	136. WIP

Sam’s neck is sleepy warm before dawn when Dean’s lips rest against the spot where neck meets shoulder, and he breathes in deep. Sam smells of smoke, always has – like the fire of a nursery or a burnt down field during the 4th of July.

The scent of salty Californian sun and Kansas smoke is wired into Dean’s brain like hardware; memories of all _kinds of fire_ curl like smoke around his mind when he wraps his arms around his brother in the still soft morning hours.

Dean knows what the angels whisper; he’s heard them talk of Sam, _the boy of_ _hellfire_.  

Dean breathes in deep again, feels Sam stir against his chest, warm and safe; and he mumbles against Sam’s neck: “I’ll burn _with_ you.”


	137. WIP

John’s stomach is in knots when he sees the way his youngest looks at Dean.

Ten years will pass, however, before he finally lashes out at seventeen-year-old Sammy when he sees how he looks at Dean, passed out on the couch. “Don’t _look_ at him like that!”

Sam’s dark eyes are calm and calculating beneath his dark bangs where he’s artfully draped across the cheap motel armchair, his long legs thrown across the furniture gracefully: He looks like royalty, the merciless kind, and John feels like he’s trapped with something he’s never encountered.

Sam’s eyes never leave Dean’s sleeping form. “But daddy,” Sam says, and he makes it sound so _filthy_ ; John wants to weep. “You’re the one who gave me the prettiest thing in the world to look at.”


	138. WIP

Dean pushes Sam in front of the Mirror of Erised.

Sam stares into the glass.

He sees himself, draped across a throne. He sees Dean’s pretty greens shift to black and he sees the darkest creatures bow before him and swear their allegiances – he sees himself command the forces of Hell with Dean by his side, _his black eyed-knight_ ; sees himself in his, _their_ , rightful place.

“Well?” Dean asks, bright eyed and rosy cheeked. “What do you see?”

Sam gently touches Dean’s cheek. “I see you.”


	139. WIP

_S1x10_

_Coordinates._

“Listen – If dad tells us to go somewhere, we’re going!”

Sam’s mouth twists into a bitter smile, and he can’t stop himself. “The last time he told me to go somewhere, _I did.”_

Confusion flickers beneath Dean’s decisiveness for a moment, before he asks: “What are you talking about?”

Sam tries to force back the memory of John cursing into his face four years ago; how the night had been so thick and stuffy warm around him, smelling of gasoline and how the harvest moon had hung so low and large that Sam could’ve sworn it was about to collide with the Alabama fields.

_“Leave. You’ll leave him Sam, or God help me I’ll find a way to keep you from him, you understand me, boy?”_

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says shortly as he glares stubbornly to the floor because the soft curve of Dean’s mouth makes him weak in so many ways, still.

Dean tells him that their next work is an asylum, and Sam thinks: _Of course, that’s where John would send him next._

 


	140. WIP

John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as the Impala speeds down the dark highway. He looks at Dean through the corner of his eye, and feels his stomach churn.

Dean’s cheeks are wet and shiny with tears, John can tell, even if Dean’s head is turned away from him. Dean’s shoulders are stiff, and John knows how much Dean is _struggling_ not to make any noise as he cries in the passenger seat: not even moving to wipe the tears away.

John’s mouth twists bitterly.

He knew this day would come, had always known: Ever since he saw the overwhelming reverence in Dean’s eyes and the way it bled into lust over the years; had known since the day he’d caught the boys doing things in the dark no brothers should.

John wants to scream at Dean. He wants to pull over and drag his sorry ass out of the car and demand to know, _How the fuck could you be so stupid? What did you expect from a bored teenager who would do anything to rebel, to go against his father? How did you not realize that this was the only way this could end?!_

“I told you,” John finally says into the pitch-black North Dakota night. “I told you he’d make you miserable.”

A noise escapes Dean then, a pitiful snivel, and he turns his face further away from John. He begs quietly: “Please. _Don’t_.”

The backseat is empty when John catches a glimpse of it in the rearview mirror.


	141. WIP

Dean going through months and months of telling himself that it’s not like _that_ ; it’s not strange to care about your little brother, right? It’s only one day when Sammy comes home to tell Dean, with a proud grin all over his beautiful face, that he’s found a pretty girl, ( _I think I have a crush Dean)_ , that’s when the denial gives away and Dean feels himself go cold, feels irrational anger and possessiveness shoot through his bones like electricity because Sam’s _his_ , and fuck it all, he’s in love with that boy and all the things about him that that stupid girl probably never in a million years would notice about him.

Dean shoves it down, shoves the realization so deep down and keeps it there with booze and violence, and this is when he begins to pick up girls in every seedy bar in every shitty town they pass through: any girl will do as long as he doesn’t have to go home and stare at Sam’s pink mouth. 


	142. WIP

Dean would always make excuses for Sam.

Four-year-old Sammy pulling wings from insects – that’s just what kids did, wasn’t it? They didn’t know any better.

Dean promptly ignored the glitter over Sam’s eyes as he watched the bug die, dry out, wither away.

 _It was just a bug_.

Dean made excuses when thirteen-year-old Sam climbed into his lap and murmured filth against Dean’s neck – Where had he heard that, must’ve been those porn channels at motels; _that’s not something you say to your sibling, Jesus Christ, Sammy._

Sam hadn’t looked like a teenaged rejection at all; more like a politician: he’d looked at Dean, a little coldly, and said: “I will make you want me.”

Dean had gone cold, because the excuses wouldn’t come anymore: Not with Sam’s eyes looking like _that_ , like he pitied nothing, wanted nothing; just dark and indifferent and chillingly powerful behind his stupid bangs and in his too-big T-shirt.  

Dean still made excuses years later, when seventeen-year-old Sammy rode his cock noisily; messily, like he was getting paid for it: Dean’s fingers digging bruises into his little brother’s hips, urging him on with the filthiest dirt he could spit out into the darkness between them.

Dean still made excuses, for himself - his wings had been torn off, he couldn’t escape, and Sam’s honey talk drizzled against his ear: “Tell me you want it.”

Dean felt the weight of Sam on top of him, accepted it, and submitted. “ _I want it_.”

Sam’s smile didn’t reach his eyes: Dean was too gone to care, and somewhere below them, a new circle of hell was measured up.


	143. WIP

“You coming to bed?”

Dean’s fingers go just a little white around the glass of whiskey. The tidy kitchen is fully lit around him and outside the windows there is only darkness at this hour, but he knows there’s a well-kempt garden outside.

Dean closes his eyes, and remembers.

_“Hey. You coming to bed soon?”_

_Dean turned around and looked at Sam. Bruised and tired looking , but smiling softly from behind all that hair: eyes soft and calm, a look on his face that said: come to bed with me._

_Dean stretched out on the motel room’s couch and nodded for Sam to come over. He said softly: “C’mere.”_

_Sam walked over to him and allowed Dean to circle his wrist and pull him down on top of him , his thighs on each side of Dean’s hips, arms resting on Dean’s shoulders._

_Dean’s fingers curled in the hair of Sam’s nape as he breathed in the scent of him, lips gentle against his neck, before he murmured: “You feel OK? You took a nasty beat back there.”_

_Sam smiled at him, sleepily. “I’m good. Thanks to you. As always,” he added against Dean’s lips before he kissed him, slowly, wetly: Dean’s heart ached from the sweetness of it as he kissed him back._

_“You taste like whiskey,” Sam laughed quietly when they broke apart for air. “I like it.”_

_Sam’s eyes gleamed in the dimly lit room, everything was quiet and so very calm, and Dean said: “I’m taking you to bed.”_

_Sam’s smile was easy and simple: so perfect. “Good.”_

“Dean? Coming?” Lisa’s question has a twinge of impatience the second time, and the motel room in Tennessee is gone.

The unnaturally clean kitchen is back, the light is too bright, and the whiskey burns in Dean’s throat when he knocks it back, before he tells Lisa: “In a bit. You go.”

Dean stares into the darkness outside the window when she leaves.

He waits for the whiskey to carve oblivion into his soul.


	144. WIP

**_Fire_**. The everlasting scent of fire licking their heels: torched childhoods and pure, merciless cleanse. Burnt down fields during 4 th of July and the scorching hell they both served time in. The soot on Dean’s hands after a fire he’d struggled with to keep Sam warm.

 ** _Earth_**. The dirt Sam still smelled on Dean’s neck when he hugged him for the first time after Dean had been pulled up from hell. The earth beneath Dean’s fingernails as he’d clawed desperately at the ground that had swallowed Sam; dragged him away from Dean and into a cage with the devil himself.

 ** _Air_**. The air Sam gasped for as his lungs felt full and empty at the same time when Dean fucked him from behind, one arm wrapped over Sam’s chest so he feelt the rise and fall of it as Dean’s voice came in hot, promising huffs against Sam’s ear: _I love you so fucking much_.

 ** _Water_**. The holy water John had forced down their throats when he’d caught them kissing in the backseat of the Impala, and the horrified tears he’d cried for his boys when nothing had happened.


	145. WIP

“Hey, Sammy?”

Sam looks up from his book. Dean’s watches him from the other end of the couch, eyes soft and a little concerned. He looks like he always does after a hunt: older than his twenty-one years with bruises around his eyes, the color drained from his face by the television’s stale glare in the otherwise dark motel room.

“Yeah?” Sam says, tapping his finger gently against the book.

Dean looks like he’s trying to swallow nasty medicine, but he finally says: “I know this life isn’t – isn’t what you would’ve wanted.” Dean looks a little embarrassed, like he’s giving away a secret, and his eyes keep flickering to the door: he’s looking out for John. Dean’s voice is softer, quieter, when he continues: “It isn’t what I wanted for you. Or me, I mean, I wish we’d grown up differently but-“ Dean looks so hopeful and _scared_ and Sam wants to cry, “You… You’re still _happy_ , right?”

Sam swallows. He stares at Dean’s bruised face, the face of the person who has given Sam everything he had in himself to give: The safety and protection, the love and the hope and every other thing soft and beautiful that Sam knows of. Sam finds everything good he knows about this miserable existence in Dean’s eyes, but it isn’t enough, because this life is _poison_ and Sam hates it so much that he sometimes thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get out.

Sam _isn’t happy_ , but Dean looks so hopeful, and in the end Sam says: “Of course I’m happy, Dean.”

When Sam sees how Dean visibly relaxes into the dirty couch with a small smile playing across his exhausted face, Sam _almost_ believes his own lie.


	146. WIP

“What are you doing?” Dean asks softly, his pretty green eyes wide with a sorrowful confusion when Sam’s fingers curl around jaw.

Sam hushes his protests: “Shh, baby, doing so well.” Sam lets out a shaky breath as his hard cock smears precome over Dean’s plump bottom lip. He coaxes sweetly: “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

Dean drops his gaze and obeys, and Sam throws his head back and moans as the perfect wetness of Dean’s mouth, and fuck, his throat, swallows him down and begins to suck and lick at his cock. Sam’s fingers rake through Dean’s short hair and he stares down at the sight of his big brother on his knees in front of him, a perfect, dribbling mess –

Sam had known Dean would be a natural at this.

“Just like that,” Sam grunts, his cock twitching in Dean’s mouth. “Gonna come down your fucking throat, Dean.”

And soon - for the third time today, he does. Sam comes with a snarl, empties himself in Dean’s mouth as he roughly wipes tears of exhaustion from Dean’s cheek with his thumb.

Dean blinks up at him, his fingernails digging into Sam’s thighs as he stares up at him, his mouth red and puffy and his eyes glistening with confused tears. “What did you call me?” he begs in a raspy, small voice.

“Nothing, baby boy,” Sam tells him, wiping a pearl of sweat from his temple. “Get some sleep.”

Sam watches Dean curl up on the narrow bed.

Regarding Dean’s sudden loss of memory – Sam has every intention of asking Rowena to help him.

Tomorrow.


	147. WIP

It’s not really a lie, Dean tells himself. Not a _lie_ , it’s just that sometimes – sometimes, Dean might exaggerate just how tired he is, how much in need of some eye shut he is, just to have a reason to pull over. To have a reason to tell Sam that he’s too tired to last the hour-long drive to the next town over; that they need to spend the night parked in the Impala.

Sometimes, Dean just tweaks the truth the _tiniest_ bit, because he knows that Sam won’t argue: He will just roll his eyes and stretch that long, _freakishly long_ , body of his and get into the backseat, all huffy and pouty and _sweet_.

Sometimes, Sam doesn’t bother. Sometimes, he simply yawns and reaches into the backseat for blankets and tosses one to Dean before he wraps himself up and rests his head to Dean’s shoulder. Sometimes Sam falls asleep like that; warm and lovely, heavy against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean spends those night awake, listening to Sam’s soft breathing against his neck. Sometimes, when dawn breaks above the hilltops, he reaches for Sam’s hand and braids their fingers together, and thinks of all the things he wants to tell Sam.

He whispers some of it, sometimes – as soft, yellow morning sun bleeds through the treetops like a golden spiderweb around them and the air smells of dew and gasoline around the highway – he whispers his confessions to the boy he once fell in love with; _the man he loves_.

Sometimes, Dean tells Sam everything.


	148. WIP

Little Sammy is only fifteen when he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to let Dean pour droplets of bourbon on his tongue. Dean’s been pouring liquid _want_ down his little brother’s throat for years, and Sammy always begs for the same thing-

“Tell me again, big brother.”

Dean always compels. He licks liquor from the corner of Sam’s mouth, and then: “This is where it started,” he whispers, eyes dark and fixed on the pale line of Sammy’s throat. “It trickled down your throat right here, baby boy. Dad told me, you swallowed it, _it’s in you_.”

Sammy’s small hand is warm and urgent against Dean’s denim covered _rockhardfuckingleaking_ cock, and he whines: “That’s why I’m like this, right? Why I’m, _why I’m fucked up.”_

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean nods against his little brother’s damp temple as he pushes two fingers against Sam’s still blood-red lips. “Get‘em wet. Gonna shove my fingers so deep down your throat. Gonna get demon blood on my _fingertips_ , you hear me?”

Sam’s fingers are tight around Dean’s wrist, his eyes a calm, calculating storm in the yellow glow of the flickering fireplace. “I want to taste it again,” he says.

Dean’s eyes go a little wide and his heart pounds against his ribs because there’s _unfamiliar_ _power_ thrumming around them; power he’s unable to name or define, and it makes him weak and it makes him _strong_ , and Dean thinks he might come from the cold gleam in Sammy’s eyes.

“I’ll find you more,” Dean promises -

and Sam could’ve sworn Dean’s eyes flickered, for only a moment, into black.


	149. WIP

Sam starts to refuse haircuts when he’s thirteen years old, but John doesn’t care – not until Sam is two weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday and John starts to notice the looks Sam gives Dean from behind all that dark hair.

John watches, his gut going cold with dread, as Sam’s eyes go a little wide when Dean walks into their motel room covered in sweat and motor oil, rubbing his neck with a filthy towel as he swears under his breath. “It’s too damn hot beneath the car, dad,” Dean complains into the stuffy motel room. “Fuck, I hate Arkansas.”

“Watch your mouth,” John says, as his own goes dry.

Dean cocks his head back, stretching the line of his neck, Sam swallows, and John feels like he might be sick because he knows what teenage want looks like; knows what it _sounds_ like.

It looks like this, like Sam’s dreamy gaze fixed on Dean’s sun-kissed throat; looks like the pink tip of Sam’s tongue against the cupid’s bow of his mouth as he eyes his brother from across the room.

Teenage want sounds like Sam’s quiet murmur: “Can’t say I mind it here.”

John looks at Sam: That long hair and pretty mouth and eyes that gives nothing away; not even color.

Dean might not know it yet, but that boy will be his downfall.

Because a nightmare is fed before it’s born, and right now, John is terrified of falling asleep.


	150. WIP

The bridge is dark and deserted when Dean shoves Sam up against the railing, cursing.

“You think you’re just gonna become some lawyer, Sam? Marry your girl?”

Sam glares down into Dean’s face and feels his heart sting, because Dean spits the words out like it’s some tasteless joke, and Sam’s spent years telling himself that it _isn’t_.

“Maybe,” Sam says, coolly. “Why not?”

Dean’s eyes gleam beneath the cold lights, his pink mouth curling into a mean sneer as he murmurs: “Does Jessica know the truth about you, Sam? Huh? Does she know about the things you’ve done?”

Sam gasps softly as Dean’s long fingers curl around his neck and Dean whispers against his cheek: “Does she know about the things _we’ve_ done?”

Sam claws at Dean’s arms, whines pathetically because wants to _throw Dean off this bridge_ , wants to dive in after him, wants to drag them out of the river and punch Dean in the face and kiss him until they both bleed.

“Dean, don’t do this to me. Not again, not now. Not when I’m finally-“

Dean looks him in the eye then, stares him down with that glistening green gaze that has made Sam weak since before he knew enough about the world to resent himself for it.

Dean’s thumb is rough against Sam’s bottom lip. “When you’re finally what, Sammy?” he asks, voice low.

Sam closes his eyes, but he can still feel Dean: Warm and strong, smelling of cheap soap and leather.

“Finally over you,” Sam whispers into the small space between them, and he has to fight the impulse to reach for Dean, to keep him close, when Dean lets go of him.

Dean takes a step back, and when Sam finally dares to look at his face again, he wants to cry because Dean looks like he’s searching for a weakness, for a way to hurt him.

Dean looks like he does when he’s terrified.

“You’re over me?”

Sam looks at Dean’s freckled nose, the arch of his eyebrows and the line of his mouth: He looks at the face of the boy he fell in love with all those years ago, before he tells a quiet lie: “You told me to get over you, Dean. So I. I did.”

Dean reaches for Sam again, his hand a wordless plea against Sam’s cheek. Dean’s voice is very, very soft when he leans forward and murmurs against Sam’s mouth: “I didn’t. Sammy, I couldn’t.”

Sam goes weak, because Dean always made him _weak_ , and when he finally kisses Dean, he feels it – he feels like the starless night above them is _theirs_ , soft and forgivingly dark; he feels like the river below flows only for them, and like the smell of soap and leather will stay with him forever.  


	151. WIP

Sam’s hands are warm and large beneath the flannel of Dean’s shirt, and he’s begging against Dean’s lips: “Please,” he says, the raspy, desperate demand sending shivers down Dean’s spine. “Need this.”

Dean’s hands tremble when he grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, and he closes his eyes.

Dean has dreamt of this moment for years, imagined what Sam’s warm breath would feel like against his cheek, hot with want and promise; imagined what the length of Sam’s strong body would feel like pressed against his own.

Dean had always imagined it would feel like this; perfect.

But Sam’s hair still smells of the fire that took Jessica, his face is wet with tears he’s still crying for her, and Dean _can’t_.

Years of _want_ roars like a raging fire through him, and like a man wandering through the desert turning his back on an oasis, he tells Sam quietly: “I can’t give you this, Sammy. Not this.”

Rejection flickers across Sam’s face before he drops his gaze, arms going slack over Dean’s shoulders as he rests against him like a ragdoll. “I’m sorry,” Sam whispers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Dean, I don’t know why I did that.”

Dean’s throat aches, because there is a part of him, _a part he hates_ , that had hoped Sam wouldn’t have stopped. A part of him had hoped to be silenced by a hard, wet kiss, and furious snarl of: _I know you want this, just like I do_.

Dean swallows as his hand comes up to grab Sam’s bicep and gently straighten him up. “You need sleep,” Dean murmurs. “Come on.”

When Dean puts Sam to bed, he can still remember what Sam’s mouth had felt like, begging softly against his own.

But Sam still smells like fire, and Dean still feels like the thirst, soon, will end him.

 


	152. WIP

“How long did you get?”

Sam’s eyes glitter with unshed tears as he stares at Dean, eyes wide and disbelieving. Dean looks at Sam; alive and breathing, and thinks: _She could’ve given me a minute and I would’ve taken the deal_.

“One year,” Dean says softly. “I got one year.”

Sam’s cheeks are wet with tears now, hands trembling as he reaches for Dean. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he chokes into Dean’s jacket. “Dean, what have you done?”

Dean buries his face in Sam’s hair and feels Sam’s steady heart beat against his palm. “I couldn’t let you go, Sammy. I did, once. I couldn’t do it again.”


	153. WIP

John’s smirking a little to himself as he spots the love bites and hickys on Dean’s throat. Dean’s sixteen, and while the world hasn’t given the kid much, at least he got a sparkling smile and green eyes that glitter dangerously beneath dark eyelashes.

John knows his boy is pretty; no doubt the girls would line up for him.

He’s about to comment on Dean’s sin-ridden neck, when he notices: the salt line inside the motel room’s door is still intact, Dean’s shoes are carelessly tossed in the same corner they were when John had left his boys three days ago, _and Dean –_

Dean can’t tear his gaze away from his little brother, and the realization makes John go cold.


	154. WIP

It was decidedly weird, living in a bunker. Especially when they weren’t working a case – what did you do? Hang around in the dungeon? Throw a tennis-ball against the concrete walls? Studying Latin?

That last thing was, in fact, Sam’s current pastime.  

He sat alone in the library, two fingers of untouched whiskey next to him in the dimly lit space. Dean was out somewhere; beer run or food run or pie run, Sam honestly didn’t know. Dean was far too restless to just launch around in the bunker.

That’s what Sam thought, at least.

“I’m so bored! Wanna grab some b - are you wearing my sweater?” Dean sounded a little bit surprised but mostly, Sam noted, smug.

Sam glanced over at Dean who strolled up to the table, leaning over it, hands placed on either side of Sam’s book. A smirk ghosted over his face, and Sam looked down at the Led Zep hoodie Dean had bought on impulse years ago. “I just threw something on,” Sam said, trying to sound nonchalant. “What’ve you’ve been up to? I thought you were out.”

Dean raised one eyebrow. “You just ‘threw something on’ that just happened to lie in a pile of my dirty laundry?”

Sam glowed at him. “You’ll just think I’m stupid.”

“That ship sailed a long time ago,” Dean replied without missing a beat. “Now tell me why you’re stealing my clothes.”

“I like how it smells of you, OK?” Sam muttered, staring intensely down into his book, cheeks heating up under what he was certain was Dean’s very amused grin. “So go on, tell your jokes about how I’m just like a lovesick teenage chick so I can get back to my book, please?”

He looked up, and while Dean was looking indeed very giddy, his expression was more one of a satisfied cat and Sam could’ve sworn he heard Dean _purr_ as he walked around the table and straddled Sam, his long legs dangling on either side of Sam’s thick thighs.

“My clothes look good on you,” Dean said lowly, hands digging into Sam’s biceps. “And knowing that you’re walking around, marked by my scent? Kind of a turn on, too.”

Sam’s arms circled Dean’s waist on impulse, and he chuckled: “That so?”

Dean nuzzled the spot right beneath Sam’s ear that always made him go weak in the knees, and mumbled: “Yeah. Means you’re mine.”

Sam let out a soft moan, bending his neck slightly to give Dean better access. “Course I am.”

Dean giggled softly into Sam’s neck: “Hey, Sammy?”

“Yeah?” Sam asked weakly, fingers threading through Dean’s hair, pulling his brother closer.

“I’m wearing your underwear right now,” Dean confessed, before placing a kitten lick to Sam’s earlobe. “They’re so nice and roomy on me, you know.”

Sam smirked into Dean’s hair, breathing him in. “You’re such a size queen.”

Dean’s grin was wide and just a little bit naughty. “Only for you, Sammy.”


	155. WIP

“Time of death, 10.41am.”

Sam stares blankly at the hospital bed, at his dad’s pallid face, and he feels Dean go rigid in a resentful protest beside him. Sam’s clothes are drenched, everything smells like disgusting hospital coffee, the doctor has just proclaimed John dead, and that’s when Sam understands.

Dean is warm and certain next to him because John chose to lie cold in Dean’s place, and Sam remembers John’s uncharacteristic plea to not fight: _Half of the time I don’t even know what we’re fighting about._

Sam can’t remember a single reason right now, because of all the memories that could’ve been washed up on the shore of his mind there’s only one of John, a memory Sam hasn’t thought about in years – John on a cold motel room floor in South Dakota; they must’ve been running low on cash because they could only afford a one bed room.

Sam remembers how John had taken out a vampire nest only hours before and how he’d tried to hide his wince as he’d stretched out on the floor and told Dean and Sam to take the bed.

“It’s cold and this place is drafty,” John had murmured into a fifth of whiskey. “Share the bed and keep warm.”

Sam remembers falling asleep with Dean warm and certain next to him.

He hadn’t thought about John on the floor: cold and alone, but now -

Now, Sam keeps staring.


	156. WIP

Sam is dangerous when he gets like this: feigned bashful and doe-eyed, pink lips shiny with spit as he looks up at Dean from beneath dark lashes. “Dean,” he says, whining like a brat, “I want to. Haven’t tasted you all week, _I know you want to.”_  

“Wanted to fuck your mouth for days, Sammy,” Dean tells him, long fingers tangling in Sam’s hair. ”But dad’s gonna be back soon. Next case he leaves for, I promise. The things I’m gonna do to you, baby brother. _Gonna mess you up_.”

“You know how fast my mouth gets you off, big brother,” Sam says, filthily: _he’s just a kid_. “Dad’s not around.”

The thing is, John is.

John’s stiff with dread behind the front door, takeaway pizzas going cold in his arms as he tries to keep the bile down his throat. He thinks of the backseat of the Impala, of single beds to save money and of warnings not to let anyone close – _family first, we’re leaving town, don’t get attached_.  

He thinks of Dean’s young face; sweet and determined: “ _Sammy comes first_.”

John feels his knees go weak and he leans against the door when he thinks of Sam’s first steps, first words, first kiss and first _fuck_ , and he thinks of Dean’s clear, green gaze always searching for Sam. He thinks of Sam and Dean’s clothes always smelling the same; he thinks of them tangled together everywhere; from cradle to motels to cases to _funerals_ , and he wants to cry.

John thinks about little Sam who’s never been on a hunt but whose wrists are constantly bruised and about how many times he’s told himself it’s just a trick of the light when his boys share looks that make John’s chest go cold.

He thinks of the vengeance he’s fed them and of the whiskey nights he hadn’t been there to stop his sons from walking hand in hand into a darkness so compact John wouldn’t be able to follow.

He tries to think of Mary; of the sound of her voice and the planes of her face but he finds that he can’t because holding onto her memory is like water in a clenched fist, and all he hears is Dean and Sam behind the door.

“Okay Sammy,” Dean says, breathlessly. “Kneel, baby. I’ll give it to you.”

John falls to his knees with a soft thud.

On the other side of the door, his youngest boy does the same.


	157. WIP

“Dean, I. Come on, please? I think she was looking over here. Please go and ask her if she wants to have a drink with me?”

Sam’s eyes are large, with that two-beers-in gleam, and Dean arches an eyebrow at him across the table. “Didn’t get you a fake ID to pick up girls for you, Sammy,” he says coolly. “Do it yourself.”

Sam looks over at the girl, blushes when she smiles back at him, and begs: “Dean, please. I don’t know what to say.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and with a final scoff he gets up from the table and swaggers over to the girl and her dolled-up friends that had caught Sam’s eye.

Sam watches as Dean starts to talk to them. His big brother’s wearing that suave and winning smile that always works, gesturing towards Sam; whose stomach drops when the girl’s eyes narrow in disbelief, her mouth curling into a sneer, before she tells Dean something inaudible.

Dean walks back to Sam, slides back into his chair and looks at him a little sympathetically. “Sorry buddy, she wasn’t interested. Happens to the best, don’t give it too much thought, ‘kay?”

Sam’s face goes a little hot with embarrassment and he nods into his beer.

When Sam leaves for the bathroom after another beer, the girl’s friends stop him when he passes. “What the hell is wrong with you?” they demand, prettily painted eyes glaring up at him.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your friend told us what you said about Alice,” one of them says. “That her skirt looked too skimpy and that she shouldn’t look so desperate. That we should stay away from you. Dick.”

Sam splutters, and when he turns around, Dean’s already there: Smirking softly as he looks down his freckled nose at Sammy, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “So,” Dean says, licking his lips. “Can I buy you a drink, baby boy?”


	158. WIP

“Are you leaving because of me?”

Dean’s eyes are wide and terrified as Sam’s proclamation stretches an endless space between them beneath the ugly motel neon sign.  

 _Dean, I’m leaving_.

Sam’s throat goes tight. He doesn’t know how to tell Dean the truth. He doesn’t know how to tell his sunshine bright big brother whose light was so strong Sam felt unworthy of it, why he’s going away.

Sam can’t tell Dean, who has given him everything he has, how it’s still not enough – doesn’t know how to tell Dean that what Sam wants from Dean is soul-rottenly bad and wrong, and Sam needs to leave before he does something that will make Dean wish Sam had never been born.

Sam doesn’t know how to ask for all the things he craves from Dean, who will never give him them, because he’s pure and good, not filthy like Sam; _whose head is_ _wired all wrong_.

Sam doesn’t know how to keep living with Dean next to him, warm and perfect; without _having_ him.

Sam forces a sneer onto his face. “Yeah,” he says, coldly. “Both of you. All of this.”

The space between them keeps stretching, and if the heartbreak in Dean’s eyes tells Sam anything, then it is that some spaces cannot be bridged.


	159. WIP

Dean’s hand trembles as his fingers tangle in little Sammy’s girly long tresses, eyes heavily lidded as he watches his corruptingly pretty little brother drop to his knees.

Sam looks up at him beneath dark lashes, and Dean shouldn’t be so filthily turned on by how _loose_ his old Nirvana tee hangs on Sam’s skinny frame; _smells like teen spirit indeed_ , but he is, and Dean swears into the sleeve of his hoodie as his little brother’s wet mouth drools all over the head of Dean’s leaking cock.

“Gonna get us caught,” Dean says around a smirk, keeping his voice low as his eyes gleam, watching Sam’s too-experienced lips work his cock. “Dad’s gonna wake up soon.”

Sam’s mouth is an obscene shade of cherry red when he says, roughly: “Let him wake. I’ll put him back to sleep.”

Dean doesn’t ask how, because Sam’s eyes won’t let him, and Dean -

Dean isn’t sure he wants to know.


	160. WIP

Falling in love with Sam hadn’t been difficult.

Sam’s reddened little pouty mouth and those sweet, warm eyes that always glanced up at Dean from beneath shaggy hair; the way he would climb into Dean’s lap and wrap his skinny arms around his neck. Little Sammy was so soft and lovely, and he worshipped Dean and told him such adorably naïve things and he was everything that was sunny and bright in Dean’s dark world.

Dean never even stood a chance.

No, falling in love had been pathetically easy.

It was living with it that had been difficult.

To remember not to let his gaze and his touches linger for too long; to not scowl at pretty girls that made eyes at Sam. It had been difficult to share every space with a boy he was _expected_ to love, but to love him in the wrong way.

It had been difficult to look at himself in the mirror without loathing what he saw: A boy in love with his own little brother, a fucked in the head kid who spent his nights with his nose buried in his brother’s sweaters because their dad had decided they were too old to share a bed.

Yes, living with it had been difficult.

Difficult had become impossible one unbearably hot day in mid-July.

When Sam, fifteen years old and prettier than ever and with eyes that saw everything, had pushed Dean onto a motel bed and straddled him; warm lips against Dean’s ear as he whispered: “I know, big brother. I’ve seen how you look at me. _Please_.”

Dean’s hands had trembled beneath Sam’s large T-shirt and felt Sam’s skin; damp with sweat and so fucking soft and smooth and Dean had moaned as Sammy licked his mouth open in a filthy, begging kiss.

Impossible, Dean realized, had been to say no.


	161. WIP

Dean doesn’t understand how John can’t notice.

He doesn’t understand how John can fail to see, _to feel_ , Sam’s knifelike glare at him as John pats Dean on the back or tells him to come help out, or when John stands behind Dean, murmuring instructions as Dean’s learning to work a new gun.

Sam _thrums_ with fury in the backseat when John makes Dean sit in the front, Dean can feel it roll off in waves from his little brother, but John’s eyes are steady on the road. John’s calmly briefing Dean about the case not noticing Sam; dark and spiteful, in the backseat.

“Hey,” John says, slapping his hand to Dean’s knee. “You listening, Dean?”

Dean catches a glimpse of Sam in the rearview mirror: Sammy’s watching John’s hand lingering on Dean’s leg, his dark eyes blazing with barely restrained rage, his face pallid in the Colorado darkness.

The day after, Sam tells Dean to tell John not to touch him.

Dean stares at his little brother on the bed; little Sammy’s dark eyed and mean looking, the line of his mouth taut.

“Sammy,” he says, carefully. “You can’t ask that of me. Dad won’t even understand what it means, he’ll-“

“I don’t care,” Sam tells him, flatly. “You’re gonna tell him to keep his hands off you. It’s bad enough I have to see him _looking_ at you all the time, that sticky nasty old gaze of his constantly on you.”

Dean feels his face go pale. “Sam,” he whispers, because John’s in the kitchen next to them, “What do you think this is? It’s _dad_ ,” he says, pleadingly. “ _It’s just dad_.”

Sam gets off the bed and walks across the room. He reaches out and cups Dean’s face with one hand, his thumb very gentle against Dean’s freckled cheekbone. Dean melts into the touch; he always does, and Sam whispers against Dean’s lips: “And I’m your brother.”

They kiss, and it’s slow and wet and filthy and _risky_ , because the door is open, and John is one turn of his head away from finding his teenage sons licking each other’s mouths open under barely restrained whines.

When they part, Dean is breathless and hard, his heart thrumming in his chest. Sam’s eyes are hooded above a lazy, confident smirk. “You tell him,” Sam murmurs, “ _Or I make him_.”

Dean knows Sam’s serious, and it terrifies him as much as it exhilarates him. “Okay, Sammy,” he agrees, shakily. “I’ll tell him.”

Sam’s pink mouth keeps smiling. “Good boy.”


	162. WIP

Dean had been so, so happy to have Sam back at his side again.

He’d missed his little brother, his best friend; the child he’d practically raised – when Sam had left for Stanford, Dean had felt like he’d been torn in half.

Dean hadn’t known the reason why Sam left, or the dark path Sam had walked down since.

Which is why, when Sam pushes him up against the wall and kisses him, Dean doesn’t know what to do. Dread chokes him up as he pushes Sam away, eyes wide in disbelief and he forces out: “Sam, what the hell?”

Sam’s head has a knowing, alarming tilt to it, and he smiles softly at Dean before reaching out, placing a warm hand at the back of Dean’s neck. “Dean,” he murmurs, “You don’t have to pretend. I left because I thought you’d never feel the same, but now I know. You came for me, you feel it too.”

Suddenly, and with an aching sadness, Dean realizes what all the looks Sam has given him means. He can’t believe he’s missed it; the longing in Sam’s eyes, the tense silences and the way he would cling to Dean, how he’d hug him until it hurt.

“Sam,” Dean whispers, “Sam, no. I don’t feel like that for you. I can’t _be that_ for you, I’m sorry.”  

Dean expects hurt or shame to flicker across Sam’s face, and when it doesn’t, his gut clenches, because Sam’s still smiling down at Dean. He tsks softly, and chides: “Always so eager to be good, Dean. I get that. But it’s okay, you can give in now. We can have this. We _deserve_ this.”

Sam kisses him again, and Dean mewls beneath his brother’s weight, weakened by shock and sorrow and he claws at Sam’s arms. He turns his face away, feels Sam breathe hotly against his cheek. Dean feels sick.

“Get off me, Sam,” he grits, eyes falling closed. “I don’t want this. I’ve never wanted this. Stop.”

Sam draws back, rolls his eyes a little, and says: “If you want to play, we’re gonna play.”

When Sam knocks him out, it’s swift and almost painless.

*

When Dean wakes up, he’s tied to a chair and Sam’s in front of him, holding some kind of vial. He’s gazing down at Dean, still with that terrifying smile across his face, and Dean stares as he struggles against the restraints.

“Sammy,” he pleads, “Untie me. It’s okay, I’m not mad, we just gotta talk this through, alright?”

Sam uncorks the small vial, calmly, and says: “Oh, we’ll talk. We’re gonna have a real long, good heart to heart, brother. You’re just gonna have to do a shot of this first.”

“Christo,” Dean tries, looking for any kind of reaction. Nothing. Dean feels like he’s falling.

“It’s not poison,” Sam tells him. “Just a little truth serum. Gonna wring the truth right out of you, Dean. You’ll see. It’ll feel so much better when you’ve confessed.”

“Sam,” Dean whimpers, because Sam’s hand is on his jaw, twisting his head up, sloppily pouring the serum into Dean’s mouth and across his chin.

Sam smirks. “Look so gorgeous like this,” he murmurs. “Always knew you would. Now,” he almost whispers as he crouches before Dean. “Tell me the truth, pretty boy. How do you feel about me?”

Dean’s eyelashes are wet with tears. “You’re my little brother,” he says brokenly. “I’d die for you, Sammy. But I don’t want you like that. Never have. Never will. And right now, you’re scaring me.”

When Dean dares to glance up, Sam’s smile is gone. His face is pale; eyes cool, menacing slits. His mouth curls into a snarl. “You know,” Sam says finally, his voice eerily calm as he takes out something from the duffel next to Dean’s chair. “I think I’m gonna enjoy this more if you’re quiet.”

Dean feels his heart break when Sam puts duct tape over his mouth.


	163. WIP

Sam makes friends with girls easily. They feel like he’s almost like one of them; soft and long haired and he blushes prettily when they talk about boys - not that little Sammy has eyes for anyone but his boyfriend, of course.

The mysterious older boyfriend he tells them about: The dark blonde hair and the freckled face; _He wears a leather jacket and he swears a lot_ , Sam dreamily tells the giggling girls in pigtails. _He’s got green eyes and he’s so tall, I have to tiptoe when I kiss him_.

A black Impala gleams as it rolls up in front of the school steps. Sam bites his lip, pearly whites over plump cherry red, and a boy gets out from the driver’s seat. The green gaze makes the girls go weak in their knees, and the sun licks against leather clad shoulders.

They share a filthy kiss before taking off with a roar, and around the breathless girls, teachers murmur in distress about the Winchester brothers.


	164. WIP

John had thrust a pretty little thing in Dean’s arms and told him to run.

Dean had followed order, because he always did.

For years, that pretty little bundle John had shoved into Dean’s arms that night had been just that – a cute thing, a thing Dean would _die_ protecting, because it was orders.

Then, his little Sammy grew up.

Dean’s chest ached, and he went weak in the knees, _because lord have mercy_ : Sammy was a pretty little thing indeed.

Dean didn’t know what to do with the filth that made his heart _thrum_ or the way his teenage dick swelled in his jeans when little Sam eyed him beneath pretty, dark bangs or bit his lip over breakfast cereal. Dean watched his little brother as a horrifying, staggering realization rose within him:

 _I want to fuck my baby brother_.

Dean spent a year in denial.

He fucked girls, boys, drank until he couldn’t see Sammy’s pretty eyes anymore.

When Dean couldn’t take it anymore, he threw himself into the line of fire during a hunt and _almost_ got himself killed. John dragged him out, beat him up, and furiously sent him to bed with a bottle of Jack in his hand.

“How fucking stupid are you, boy?” John snarled, his glare glittering. “What the _hell_ you think Sammy would do if you’d died tonight? What would he be without you?”

Dean shoved his crying face into the pillow and tried very, very hard not to feel the warmth of Sam’s warm, sleeping body next to him.

 _He’d be safe_ , Dean thought as he crawled to the edge of the bed. _He’d be safe from me._


	165. WIP

Sam wakes up and hears the fire crackle; they’ve borrowed a hunter’s cabin in Wyoming for the case and it doesn’t have electricity.

He knows something is wrong, because Dean’s back trembles, and Sam crawls closer.

“Dean?” he whispers, fingertips light against his big brother’s naked back. It’s smooth and golden in the light of the flames, and Sam doesn’t know why it makes his stomach flutter. “You awake?”

Dean goes taut beneath his touch. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

It’s not mean or harsh, but it makes Sam’s stomach churn. “I can’t,” he whispers, because John’s snores from the couch are close. “You’re sad.”

Dean turns around then, and Sam’s eyes go wide, because Dean’s eyes are puffy and red in the yellow, waxy glow from the fire. His big brother, ever so brave and true is crying, and Sam asks: “Why are you sad?”

Dean laughs strangely and puts a hand to Sam’s cheek. He draws him close; Sam lets him, because it’s _Dean_. His big brother, his everything. He feels safe in Dean’s arms.

Then, Dean whispers: “Because I think I love you too much.”

Sam doesn’t know what that means, but when he traces his index finger down the bridge of Dean’s freckled nose, he decides.

_He wants to find out._


	166. WIP

When sweet-faced little fifteen-year-old Sammy gets back to the motel, he steps into the shower and paints the tiles red.

Watered down blood rinses off his hands and swirls down the drain, and Sam smiles into the coppery scented steam. He washes away the traces of his afternoon from beneath his fingernails and lathers himself in creamy soap he’s stolen a few towns back; it smells of coconut, and it always makes Dean bury his nose in Sam’s neck and breathe him in.

Sam dresses in Dean’s old hand-me-down jeans and a washed-out Led Zep tee, his long hair still dripping into his eyes as he walks, feet bare, into the kitchen.

“Dean,” Sam says, admiring the way the late afternoon sun looks against Dean’s freckled face. “I have something for you.”

He digs something out from his pocket and offers it up to Dean, palm open. Dean looks at it.

“That watch,” Dean says slowly, staring at it. “Sam, where did you get that?”

Sam shrugs. “From someone who doesn’t need it anymore,” he tells Dean, his smile soft and simple. “I want you to have it.”

Dean returns the smile, takes the watch from Sam and pulls the boy close: buries his face in Sam’s wet hair to hide his terrified face.

Dean has seen that watch before; on the wrist of a truck-stop driver two nights ago. He’d approached Dean on a dark parking lot, licked his lips and asked Dean how much he charged. John had been livid, but Sam – Sam had been so very, very cool.

The watch feels heavy in Dean’s clenched fist.

A chill runs down Dean’s spine as he remembers the box he keeps under his bed: full of _gifts_ from Sam.

_His trophies_.

Sam’s always shower wet when he brings Dean gifts, and Dean wants to cry when he realizes why. 

 


End file.
